Brotherhood of the Wolf (38 page)

Gaborn had never felt a Dedicate die. The sensation had been described to him, the wrenching nausea, the sense of loss as brawn or stamina were ripped away.

Now he felt it keenly. Wave after wave of nausea assailed him as his endowments were stripped. His mail suddenly seemed to hang heavy on his frame, a suffocating weight that bore him down.

He'd not slept for three nights. With his endowments of stamina he'd taken it lightly, but now fatigue overcame him.

He felt bewildered, weary to death. King Orwynne stared in horror.

Gaborn hunched over and covered his stomach with his hand, as if reeling from a physical blow. Yet his greatest concern was not for himself.

The Blue Tower housed the vast majority of the Dedicates who served Mystarria. More importantly, the warriors of Mystarria made up nearly a third of all the force soldiers in all the kingdoms of Rofehavan.

Duke Paldane's warriors, the finest in Mystarria, would become worthless commoners in moments, or with the loss of key attributes, they might at best become “warriors of unfortunate proportion,” perhaps strong but slow, or wise but weak.

Even now Duke Paldane was driving his men into formation before Raj Ahten's troops, while Raj Ahten's Invincibles sharpened their blades for the slaughter.

Gaborn had wondered last night what had become of Raj Ahten. Now he knew.

Mystarria would be destroyed, and most likely all of the
north would collapse with it. Gaborn wondered how it had happened.

Certainly, Duke Paldane had strengthened the Blue Tower's defenses—had doubled or quadrupled its guard.

In his mind's eye, Gaborn imagined the tower walls splintering, great shards of stone cascading into the sea.

Similarly, Gaborn felt himself crumble. Strength left him as his three endowments of brawn were stripped away. His eyes dulled as the blind Dedicates in the Blue Tower fell.

He'd prided himself on all that he'd learned in the House of Understanding, yet in moments, as his twin endowments of wit fled, he forgot more than half of all he had learned; he could not even conjure Iome's image. The distant calls of warblers over the town suddenly muted as his ears went dull.

In a blind rage, as the impact of what was happening was borne home, Gaborn shouted at his Days, “You bastard! You craven bastard! How could you not have warned me?” But his own voice sounded weak, distant, as the mutes in his service were silenced forever. “A bad day for the books, indeed!”

“I am sorry,” the Days vainly apologized again.

King Orwynne sat down on the porch beside Gaborn, held his shoulders. “Rest yourself,” the old man said. “Rest yourself. Did he kill all of your Dedicates?”

Gaborn fought the urge to surrender to exhaustion, to surrender to cruelty, to surrender all hope. “They're dead!” Gaborn said. “The Blue Tower is gone.”

“You look, Your Highness, like a corpse,” King Orwynne said. “What shall we do now? Where shall we go? Do you want to find a facilitator and take new endowments before heading south?”

Gaborn had twenty thousand forcibles with him, and the temptation was great. But he dared not turn back for Castle Sylvarresta now.

“No, we must ride on,” he said. He would reach Castle Groverman by nightfall, and Groverman had a facilitator
he could use if he had to. “I have the strength of any other man. I am still the Earth King.”

He struggled up from the porch, climbed into his saddle.

Gaborn could ignore the threat to his men no longer. The Darkling Glory drew close. “Be warned,” he sent to his Chosen warriors. “Death is coming.”

21
THE PRICE OF A MEAL

In the early afternoon, Borenson lost his endowments. He sat in the saddle feeling his metabolism leave, feeling himself slow to the speed that other men lived.

At first he wondered at the nausea that overwhelmed him, thought that it was his stomach cramping. Then the loss of endowments came so precipitously he could not quite feel what was lost next—strength or stamina, smell, hearing or sight. All of it drained away in moments, leaving him an empty husk.

As his endowments were depleted, a sense of desolate grief assailed Borenson. He'd looked into the eyes of the young farm boys who'd given him brawn years ago. They'd been promising lads who'd bequeathed their lives to him.

They should be frolicking with some milkmaids right now, Borenson thought. Not dying in the Blue Tower. And he remembered old Tamara Thane who had given him warm scones when he was a child and an endowment of metabolism when he stood in need. All those who'd known her would miss her.

But as much as he grieved for his Dedicates, he grieved more for himself. The deaths of his own Dedicates brought fresh to mind the nightmarish images he'd seen in Castle Sylvarresta a week past, when he'd been forced to butcher the Dedicates there.

Most of the morning, Borenson's guard had been silent. They'd ridden like a gale through Deyazz, a land where the sun shone brighter than anywhere else in Borenson's memory. It was a beautiful land, and though he was only five hundred miles south of Heredon, the weather had warmed dramatically west of the Hest Mountains.

Deyazz lay north of the great Salt Desert, the hottest heart of Indhopal, and the prevailing winds swept the desert heat in this direction. Deyazz was not a tropical land, yet the water seldom froze even in the dead of winter.

The farmers' fields along the Anshwavi River were a lush green. Herons hunted for insects in the oft-flooded fields. Young boys in white linen loincloths worked with their mothers and sisters to harvest rice in wicker baskets.

Borenson had ridden through cities of whitewashed adobe, where the lords of the land had built majestic palaces with domed roofs plated in gold. Beautiful dark-skinned women in silk dresses, adorned with rings of gold and rubies in their ears or noses, lounged among the stately columns of the palaces or sat beside reflecting pools.

The cities had broad avenues, awash with sunlight—not narrow streets like those in the walled cities of Heredon. Deyazz's cities therefore smelled clean—less of man and beast than in the north.

Yet signs of war were everywhere. Borenson had passed column after column of troops, and the castles along the border had been filled to overflowing. As he and the Invincible had passed through, the common folk in the towns along their route had watched Borenson distrustfully. Small boys hurled figs at him, while their mothers hurled curses.

Only once or twice did he hear a hopeful call from an old man or woman: “Have you seen the Earth King?”

But as Borenson's endowments left him, he slumped over, and wrapped the chains of his manacles around the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling. Tears came to his eyes.

“Help!” he called. He had not slept in days, and had not eaten since late last night. With his endowments of stamina,
he had not felt the hunger or fatigue. But now fatigue nearly blinded him, making it hard to focus his eyes, and hunger cramped his stomach.

His captor glanced back at him darkly, as if afraid Borenson was engaged in some ruse. They were riding through a city now, along its main market street within the gates. The vendors' stalls in the market smelled strongly of curry and ginger, cumin and anise, paprika and hot pepper. Toothless old brown men in turbans sat beneath umbrellas in the midday sun, smiling to Borenson's captor and calling to him to try their food. They offered steamed rice cooked in bamboo baskets over boiling water in brass pots. Beside the rice sat pots with various curry sauces and condiments. Some men sold doves barbecued in plum sauce and still attached to long skewers. Others had pickled starling eggs, or artichokes in huge barrels. Elsewhere were fruits: tangerines, oranges, melons, figs, candied dates, and piles of dried coconut.

“Stop!” Borenson begged again. “Your master is at the Blue Tower in Mystarria.”

He leaned forward, straining with the effort to stay awake. His senses reeled, and he glimpsed visions of nightmares. A deep-seated weariness overtook him, like a pain in the bones.

The Invincible glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “The Blue Tower would be a good place to strike. I would recommend such a plan to my lord.” He studied Borenson suspiciously, but if Borenson had concocted some scheme to overpower his captor, this market was the worst possible place to try it. Finally he asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

“Nothing,” Borenson said. There would be no balm that could assuage his horror and grief at the loss of his Dedicates. The Invincible would not be able to replace any memories that Borenson had lost, or grant him surcease from the mind-numbing weariness that assailed him now. Instead, he begged only for whatever succor his captor would grant him. “But I'm suddenly exhausted, and starving.
I don't know if I can stay awake much longer. I had not slept for days.”

“It is true, what they say,” the Invincible said. “‘Warriors without endowments are not warriors at all.'”

A vendor, upon seeing that they had stopped, rushed forward and presented the Invincible with a sample taste of his sweet peppered crocodile. In moments, other vendors proffered samples of their wares. But they ignored Borenson, the red-haired warrior of Mystarria.

The aroma of good warm food made Borenson's stomach rumble, and he was overwhelmed with hunger. “Can we stop to eat?” he begged.

“I thought you were in a hurry?” the Invincible said gruffly, his mouth full of food, as the merchants circled his horse.

“I'm in a hurry, but I'm also hungry,” Borenson answered.

“Which is greater?” the Invincible said. “Your hurry, or your hunger? I sensed your haste and therefore did not stop. Besides, a man should not be made a slave to his stomach. The stomach should serve the man. You northerners, with your fat bellies, should heed my advice.”

Borenson was a stout man, a big man; he'd never thought himself fat. On the other hand, in the course of his ride through Deyazz, he'd not seen a man as heavy as himself.

“I only want a bit of food. We do not have to stop long,” he implored.

“What will you pay me if I feed you?” the Invincible asked.

Borenson looked at the merchants' stalls. He was a captive, and had little choice in the matter. Here in the south, lords seldom fed their prisoners. Instead, family members or friends were expected to provide food, clothing, and medicine for captives.

As a prisoner, he would not be allowed to buy food from vendors.

“I've got gold in my purse,” Borenson said, wondering how long such gold might last if he had to pay his captor
for food. The Invincible would charge heavily, to make sure that Borenson's future jailers got nothing.

The Invincible laughed, glanced back at Borenson with an expression of pure amusement. “You are in chains, my friend. I shall have your purse whenever I want it. No, you must come up with a better coin.”

“Name your price,” Borenson said, too weary to argue.

The Invincible nodded. “I will consider it.…”

The Invincible bought some roasted duckling and rice, and a pair of lemons from an old vendor who also provided cheap clay bowls to eat from.

Then the Invincible rode through the city swiftly and stopped at a bend in the Anshwavi River. An old palace had fallen into ruins here perhaps a thousand years before.

They let the horses drink and graze. The Invincible led Borenson to the water by the manacles so that he could wash in the river before eating. Then the men sat on an ancient marble pillar to dine. The green-veined stone was worn smooth, as if travelers often sat here to eat.

The Invincible cut his lemons with a curved dagger and squirted their juice over the delicately spiced duck and rice. Borenson's stomach cramped at the sight. He reached out for the bowl, but the Invincible only smiled and taunted him. “First, your payment.”

Borenson stared expectantly, waiting for the man to name a price. Perhaps his fine bow, or a piece of armor.

“Tell me about your Earth King,” the Invincible said. “Tell me what he is like, and speak honestly.”