He came upon Skalbairn. The big High Marshal had saddled his mount, and stood in the darkness bearing a lance in one hand, the reins of his horse in the other. He gazed longingly over the plains. Marshal Chondler stood watch at his side. They were nearly a mile from the base of Mangan’s Rock.
Chondler was whispering, “You are either the bravest man I ever knew, or more of a fool than I’d have given you credit for.”
“He’s no fool,” Waggit boomed. “You have the word of an expert on that.”
Skalbairn slapped the baron on the back in a friendly greeting.
Gaborn strode up behind the men. “What’s going on?”
“A reaver, Milord,” Skalbairn said. “A monstrous big one, behind those rocks. I want to kill her.”
Gaborn followed his gaze. Behind three humped rocks, a scarlet sorceress ambled on the valley floor. The huge creature glimmered softly, her entire body covered in fiery runes. She circled as if in a daze, dragging her rear legs like one wounded. She was less than half a mile off, about midway between the men and Mangan’s Rock.
“How did she get there?” Gaborn asked.
“We saw her climbing down the cliff,” Chondler said. “She was about a hundred yards up when she slipped and fell. Since then, she’s been wandering all over the field, much as you see her now.”
Gaborn considered attacking, felt inside himself. The notion aroused a sense of near panic.
“Leave her,” Gaborn said. “She’s not as helpless as she seems.”
“Ah, if only I had a ballista out here,” Chondler said, “I’d plant a bolt through her gizzard.”
“We have ballistas,” Gaborn told him. “They came on the wains about an hour ago.”
Chondler and Waggit looked at each other gleefully. Gaborn felt inside himself...yes, it would be safe to get in range of the monster. He urged, “Go get the ballistas.”
Chondler and Waggit hurried off into the darkness, leaving Gaborn alone with Skalbairn.
“You’ve taken a liking to Waggit,” Gaborn observed.
Skalbairn grunted. “He’s a good man, I think. Perhaps good enough for the likes of my daughter, Farion. I’ve long thought that she’d need a kind man, someone who will not condemn her for her weakness. She’s a bit simple, you see.”
Gaborn said nothing.
“You know,” Skalbairn said, nodding toward Chondler, “that man may serve you yet.”
“You mean he doesn’t now?”
Skalbairn shook his head. “He’s sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. He doesn’t completely trust your judgment. He thinks you...too much a gentleman.”
Gaborn chuckled at the notion.
“He’s serious, milord,” Skalbairn said. He related Chondler’s tale of the charitable mother and her grasping son, then said, “Chondler claims that there is only one virtue, milord: moderation. And even that is not a virtue when practiced to excess.”
“By his argument,” Gaborn countered, “I should account myself worthy so long as I give as much as I steal, or tell the truth as often as I lie.”
“He’d say that a good man gives more than he steals,” Skalbairn said, “and rescues more than he butchers.”
“That seems a damned convenient argument.”
“Very convenient,” Skalbairn said. “It saves the mind a good deal of contemplation and assuages much guilt.”
Gaborn felt angry. He saw Chondler’s points: men do train themselves to see their vice as virtue; and a virtue carried to excess can become a vice.
But Gaborn believed that wrongs were more solid, like rocks jutting in a harbor. Any man of conscience could steer the course between them. To do anything else led to guilt and suffering. Chondler’s arguments were not merely circular, they seemed contrived to deceive. “What do you think about this?”
“I can’t very well fault you for your kindness,” Skalbairn said. “After all, I am the recipient of your generosity.”
“I was wrong to Choose Raj Ahten,” Gaborn said. “I see that now. Was I also wrong to Choose you?”
Skalbairn shook his head. “I don’t know. Obviously, I wouldn’t think so. You saved my life six times yesterday in the battle for Carris. I’m in your debt. I intend to repay you.”
Gaborn looked at the man. He stood holding his lance, gazing out toward the scarlet sorceress on the plain. A falling star flashed through the heavens above Mangan’s Rock, blazing a trail of light.
During the height of the battle yesterday, Gaborn had sent warning to many people, so many thousands of times, that he could not guess how many lives he’d saved.
Out in the fields behind Skalbairn, there was a sudden whunk—the sound of falling dirt and stones. Gaborn turned, saw a plume of dust rising. Not a hundred yards west of a watch fire, the ground had caved in, leaving a gaping hole some thirty feet wide.
“What’s that?” Skalbairn shouted.
Instantly, Gaborn realized what had happened, why the feeling of portent around his guards kept rising. The reavers were digging underground, trying to flank his men! But they’d tunneled under a rock that could not hold.
He saw their plan. Averan had said that none of the reavers here could build a Rune of Desolation. The reavers had stopped because they were thirsty, terrified, and desperate.
Now he suspected that she was right.
A plan blossomed in Gaborn’s mind. “Strike,” the Earth said. “Strike now!”
“Blow retreat!” Gaborn shouted. “Get our men away from the watch fires. Have our troops form up by the creek.”
Gaborn turned and raced into the darkness. “What?” Skalbairn called, “are we going to flee?”
“No!” Gaborn shouted. “We’re going to attack. I know how. I should have thought of it before.
“We have seen wonders today. Wait a moment, and I will show you one more.”
42
Crow’s Bay
Nine worldships built Fallion of old, and set them sail from the Courts of Tide. And filled them all with warriors bold, to hunt the Toth, across oceans wide.
Iome had sometimes tried to imagine the Courts of Tide, but imagination had failed her.
She knew that the city was set upon a number of islands, and she’d heard of the famous bridges that spanned them. The bridges were carved of crystal shipped from the Alcair Mountains on huge barges.
The stones did indeed vault from island to island, and though she’d fairly imagined the bridges to look as pale and translucent as ice in the moonlight, she had never envisioned their fine pillars. Each was cut in the form of a heroic figure that represented some virtue that the Runelords of Mystarria aspired to. Nurture was a woman who nursed a daughter in her arms. Courage was a stout warrior with a wavy-bladed dagger in hand, straddling a serpent that sought to entangle him. Charity was a lord hunched beneath a sack full of fruits and wheat, bearing it to the poor.
The sheer scale of the works was impressive. Ships could sail beneath the soaring bridges.
Though Iome had heard of the king’s Great Tower in Mystarria, the tallest edifice in all Rofehavan, she’d never visualized a tower that was three hundred feet tall. Even now she could make out the tiny figures of Mystarria’s vigilant far-seers, making their rounds on its highest ramparts.
Yet upon entering the city, she also saw the price that Mystarria’s king paid for this haven. Land was at a premium, and though the streets were free of clutter and well tended, they were also remarkably narrow. She rode as if through a chasm. In many places overhead, marble walkways and plazas spanned from building to building, so that as Iome’s retinue neared Gaborn’s palace, they traveled through tunnels where crystalline lanterns hung from black iron rungs. The sea wind cut through with its chill breeze.
Iome gaped up at the soaring citadels and remarkable stonework and tried to keep from gasping at each new fountain or frieze or hanging garden.
Sergeant Grimeson and the knights of Mystarria tried to keep from looking too pleased by her reaction.