It was a mad episode. The horses lunging around in the pool soon muddied the water so that no one could see. If one man did spot a fish, he’d give a shout and spur his horse forward, and all of the others would give chase, for they’d made a game of seeing who would spear the biggest fish.
For the most part, they spent their time chasing around trout that weren’t much longer than Gaborn’s forearm. After an hour of this, only one knight had speared a salmon, a little jack that was small by way of having swum upstream to spawn a year or two early.
But Gaborn was his father’s son, and he decided that if he were going to get a fish, he’d have to think like a fish.
The knights all held to the deep, splashing and muddying the water so that a fish wouldn’t be able to breathe.
So Gaborn went to the shallows at the edge of the stream, where a few overhanging weeds provided cover and the water was fairly clear. Soon he spotted the tail of a salmon poking out. A quick thrust with his spear won Gaborn the salmon that his father had ordered.
The lords had talked about it for days afterward—this little lad, going out and spearing the only salmon in the pool while a bunch of force soldiers and Runelords made fools of themselves.
If I were a reaver, Gaborn wondered, what would I do? The reavers were all fleeing along the exact same trail that had brought them here two days ago. At least, that’s what it looked like.
But a smart reaver would take another trail.
“Sir Langley, Marshal Skalbairn,” Gaborn said, calling the men to his side. “Is it possible that this main force of reavers is acting as a decoy? Could some others have left the trail?”
“I had men watching,” Skalbairn said. “But it’s hard to say for sure what they did in the night.”
“Send a hundred men to check for tracks,” Gaborn ordered. “In particular, have them search back where the reavers dug in last night. Unless I miss my guess, some of them waited to leave. Your men must kill any that they find.”
“Yes, milord,” Skalbairn said.
“And after you’ve done that, call the lords together for a council. We have to get the reavers down from the rock.”
Gaborn turned to Averan. “Could the reavers be digging a well up there?”
“On Mangan’s Rock?” Iome asked.
It didn’t sound feasible even to Gaborn. The rock had to be hundreds of feet thick. But reavers were inordinately strong, and there were thousands up there to work. They had a virtually unassailable position.
Gaborn frowned in concentration.
He felt...rising danger around some of his men.
He looked up. The reavers were sculpting a shallow dome atop Mangan’s Rock. Glue mums had begun to spit out pulpy strands into a configuration he recognized. A brown haze rolled from it, and actinic blue lights flashed beneath. An enormous flameweaver crawled atop the thing, raised a crystalline staff to the sky.
Gaborn’s heart seemed to freeze.
Binnesman breathed out in wonder. “They’re making another Rune of Desolation.”
36
Maygassa
Maygassa is the oldest city in the world. For twice ten thousand years it has stood, and if a man digs anywhere beneath its streets, he will find the ruins of older buildings and the bones of the ancients. The meaning of its name is lost in time, but the oldest texts argue that it means “First Home.”
On the western slopes of the Anja Breal, in the Valley of the Lotus, lay sprawling Maygassa, the capital of old Indhopal, It was a city that produced nothing but people—a myriad of people.
The rajahs of Indhopal had long ago built the Palace of Elephants here, a stronghold along the river. On the west, above the city, the palace stood atop an enormous gray stone nearly eight hundred feet high. All along the base of this huge stone were pictographs in ancient Indhopalese that gave the Enlightened Texts of the ancient Rajah Peshwavanju. The texts covered the gray rock, forming an exquisite pattern that was much admired throughout Indhopal. The pattern was called “Lace of Stone.”
Some legends said that the texts were not carved by human hand but had appeared overnight, written by the Earth for those who sought enlightenment.
Raj Ahten glanced up at the palace, read the uppermost verse, “Bow before the Elephant Throne, O haughty traveler. You upon your proud cameclass="underline" know that you are nothing.”
The words struck Raj Ahten with the force of a portent. The warnings from Binnesman, the way that the Earth Powers had withdrawn from him—even his failure to catch the insolent Wuqaz Faharaqin—all seemed evidence that the Earth was against him. Now the inscription in stone seemed to blaze.
It was only a coincidence that he read that verse, of course. Peshwavanju’s masons had known that merchants traveling the Old Spice Route would ride by on camels, and would of course glance up to read the verses.
Still, it seemed to be a portent, and Raj Ahten halted along the road to rest his camel, as he looked down on Maygassa.
He admired this city. Conquering it had been the high point of his life. He remembered well his ascent to the Elephant Throne here at the palace. Raj Ahten’s father, Arunhah, had once told him that the name Ahten meant “the Sun.” His given name, Avil, was so common that Raj Ahten had held it in contempt. So when he seized the Elephant Throne, he renamed himself Raj, “Ruler,” as did all of the kings of Indhopal. Thus, on the day that he took the capital of Indhopal, he became known throughout the world as the “Sun Lord.”
Below, the walled city sprawled beside the broad banks of the Djuriparari River. The walls of the city, and of every palace within it, were carved of stone that was grayish white, almost a pale lavender, so that the city shone bright in the sun. The Djuriparari River was a broad band of copper beside it.
Fleets of sailing boats, carved from teakwood, each sporting a single mast of brown canvas, plied the sluggish waters. They brought rich spices, rice, sugar cane, silk, gold, melons, and fruits from the jungles. Even from miles away, Raj Ahten’s keen nose could smell the thick scent of cloistered humanity, of commerce and rotting fruit, of poverty and hope.
But as he watched the river below, he knew that he would find trouble in Maygassa. The boats were all heading downstream today, and their four-pointed sails had been unfurled to hurry the pace. People were fleeing.
More than that, from the upper passage he could see along the highway that led to Majpuhr. It was thick with oxcarts, horses, and people. From a distance, the seething mass of humanity marching up the broad winding road between the trees looked like a python twisting through the grass.
None here dared to head northeast, along the trade routes into the desert—not at this time of year. The Wastes were too dry for any but the best force camels. Instead, the refugees were following the curve of the jungle through the hills northward, toward Deyazz.
“What is happening?” Bhopanastrat asked. “Are the reavers coming?”
“Yes,” was all that Raj Ahten said. He gripped the reins of his camel in his numb left hand, prodded the beast with his right, and rode down into the valley.
Maygassa was bustling. A nervous buzz filled the air, the sound of thousands of worried voices talking quickly, punctuated by shouts and cries. Beyond the markets, the city still crawled with men and women, each packing their families’ goods and abandoning their homes. Raj Ahten saw women in their apartments throwing bundles of clothes and food down to children below, while men with daggers and swords guarded their horses and wagons.
All of this Raj Ahten gathered as he rode in from the north, through the Gate of the Blind and along the broad avenues. The city was in a state of panic. The first few people he passed were so preoccupied with flight that none paid him or his men any mind. The one man who looked his way was eyeing his camel, as if wondering if it might be worth stealing. When at last he bothered to look at its rider, he fell back, speechless.