Too few people had left the city. Gaborn’s men could see the peasants down in the valley, still loading food and wagons. Their hearts went out to the commoners preparing to die down there.
“Milord?” Skalbairn asked.
Gaborn warned, “Stay back. We can’t do any more good. The cover is inadequate, as anyone can see.”
Gaborn dared not tempt fate. He knew that he could not turn the horde.
Skalbairn’s men chafed at his command.
Beside him, Baron Waggit was breathing heavily, almost unable to restrain himself from riding down into the valley, to join the doomed men. The minutes stretched interminably, though the wait was short.
Nearly a mile below, the reavers marched in the Form of War. The ground trembled from their passage.
He could not stop them.
When the reavers neared the far side of the ravine, the hundred archers rose up and let loose a volley of arrows.
Few men had bows powerful enough to penetrate a reaver’s hide at a hundred yards. Fewer still had the skill to use them effectively at such a distance. Yet three or four men managed to make kills before the reavers retaliated.
Blade-bearers hurled stones, then leapt through the ravine. Mages blasted with their staves.
Some of Feldonshire’s archers raced for their horses. A few lucky ones ran fast and lived. But most of the commoners died by the droves.
Then the horde was beyond the ravine, into the borders of Feldonshire itself.
Reavers knocked down orchards in their path, smashed cottages that had stood for centuries, demolished fields and flocks.
People fled—peasants running as fast as their legs could carry them, mothers with babes in their arms and children in tow.
Their screams rose above the thunder of the reavers.
Those that ran clear of the reavers’ path would live. Those who failed would never fail at anything again.
The blade-bearers at the front fed on sheep and peasants until they could stomach no more. Then they regurgitated their meals and moved on, feeding anew.
Gaborn felt numb. To the west, Langley’s knights rode behind the reavers, slaughtering the laggards. The men’s lances were all broken, so they resorted to horsemen’s warhammers.
But to the east, peasants and wagons darkened the road. The highway through town served as a bottleneck for those who fled. People shouted in terror but could not move fast enough. At least ten thousand people still remained in the reavers’ path.
One of Skalbairn’s men peeled off from his ranks, came riding up from the valley below. When he drew near, he raised the visor of his helm. It was Marshal Chondler.
“Good news!” Chondler cried. “The reavers couldn’t keep the pace. We rid ourselves of thousands in the hills!”
No one cheered. The warrior looked over his back, to see why the others stared. His smile turned to a scowl.
“Milord,” Chondler asked. “What can we do?”
Gaborn did not answer for a moment. In the past hour, he had considered every option—archery barrages from the hillsides, charges with lances, holding fast behind the stone wall and braving the worst that the reavers could bring against them. All paths led to disaster. Only one answer sufficed.
Gaborn whispered angrily, “Stay out of their way. Kill any that fall behind.”
A part of him refused to believe that this could ever happen. He was the Earth King, and could still hear its voice. He’d felt certain that in his hour of greatest need, the Earth would respond. Yet now he watched the slaughter, and could not stop it. Most of all, he mourned the sick and wounded still trapped beside the river. Their fate was sealed.
Now the reavers neared the heart of Feldonshire. They slowed as they pushed over cottages and shops, took a few seconds to ferret people from their hiding holes and gobble them down.
Gaborn reached out with his senses. Many of his people had fled. Some were on the far side of the river to the north. Others had gone south into the hills. The reavers’ course would lead straight through Feldonshire. His people to the north and south should have been safe.
Yet Gaborn felt a rising danger, even for those who had left the reavers’ path. It could mean only one thing. Once the reavers reached the pools at Stinkwater, they would swing back to hunt the people of Feldonshire.
Yet something even more profound had happened. Gaborn reached out with Earth senses. The Earth warned him that now the danger had risen tenfold. The world’s peril had increased. Gaborn wondered what might have changed.
Then he felt it. Raj Ahten was gone. Gaborn could only surmise that the reavers in Kartish had killed him. With his death, everything seemed ready to fall apart.
Gaborn felt staggered.
Chondler watched the reavers spread their decimation and argued, “Milord, I’m sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. I’ll not stand here idle while people die.”
Gaborn shook his head sadly, tried to make the man understand. “You see their formation? If you attack their lines, the front ranks will retreat a few steps while those at your side move up. Then the arms of the star will swing round and close on your position, circling you. You’ll die!”
“All men die,” Chondler said. “I’m sworn to protect mankind.”
Couldn’t he see? Couldn’t he see that Gaborn acted in their best interests?
“Damn you, Marshal Chondler,” Gaborn shouted. “What do you think I’m trying to do? If you go down there, the reavers will have you and destroy Feldonshire anyway.”
“I’m sworn—” Chondler began to say.
Gaborn drew his sword ringing from its sheath. “For mankind,” he said solemnly, “and for the Earth.” Around him, the men of the Brotherhood of the Wolf cheered.
Chondler stared at him in surprise, unsure how to take this. The king would join the Brotherhood of the Wolf? Was he renouncing his kingdom?
Gaborn knew that his deed put Chondler off balance. But in his own mind, he was only reaffirming the commitment he’d made to his people long ago.
He looked out over the crowd. “So, good sirs, it’s a fight you want?” he asked. “I assure you, this battle has only begun.”
58
Three Kills
The most enigmatic of reavers is the “fell mage,” the leader of an attacking horde.
Hearthmaster Magnus contended that they are a separate species from other reavers, while others suggest that powerful leaders always rise from within the ranks of sorceresses.
It is of course tempting to assume that something as malign as a reaver horde would have to have a leader. But I often wonder if even the eyewitness accounts of fell mages are not faulty. In what respect does a “fell mage” differ from any other large sorceress?
And since the last eyewitness documentation of a fell mage leading a reaver horde is nearly 1400 years old, I wonder if it is prudent to discount the notion completely.
Rather, I suspect that reavers form a loose society that is ultimately leaderless.
Guildmaster Wallachs’s wagon rounded a corner too fast, slewed as if it would leave the road. They’d left Feldonshire, and as she topped a hill Averan spotted two disreputable warehouses on the flats below. Hides stretched on racks in the sun outside one building identified it as a tannery.
Wallachs slowed his wagon, whistled to some men loading barrels outside the tannery. “Reavers will be here in five minutes. Get to safety!”
The men left off loading their barrels and Wallachs was off again. The horses heaved with every breath, and they frothed now. Wallachs shouted as he sent the whip whistling over their tails.
Wallachs eyed the second building as he passed. Averan could smell the pungent, greasy odor of lye soap cooking.
After that, there was no true road. No cottages bordered the Stinkwater, not even the lowest hovel. Here on the east of town, the only businesses had been those that smelled so bad that no one would want them near.
To the west of town the land had been rich and fertile, covered with cottages and gardens, orchards, vineyards, and fields of hops and barley.