David Farland - Wizardborn

“Maybe less,” Averan emphasized.

Wallachs glanced at Binnesman for verification. The wizard arched a brow. “Less than that, I’d say. The reavers are racing full tilt.”

Wallachs snapped his whip over the heads of his mounts, whistled and shouted. The horses erupted from the stable, went charging up the hill.

They’re slow, Averan realized. So slow.

These weren’t force horses. They were common animals, and big. Pulling logs and heavy loads over the years had strengthened them. But even with a light wagon racing at full speed, they’d be hard-pressed to outrun a reaver.

So Wallachs went stampeding south along the road, shouting, “Clear the way,” when anyone dared stand in front of him. “Five minutes. In five minutes the reavers will be here!”

Only then did Averan begin to see the danger. Heading east of town, where workmen’s cottages lined the dirt road, she still saw people everywhere. Many were emptying their houses, packing goods onto horses. One old woman quickly tried to pick an apple tree clean. Another young mother was grabbing laundry off a drying bush while her children tugged at her apron strings.

Dogs yapped at the wagon as it passed.

The road climbed a small hill, and for a couple of minutes Averan could see all of Feldonshire spread out below her. To the northwest the Darkwald was a brown blot along the silver waters of the Donnestgree. To the south lay a dozen hamlets in the folds of the hills. Boats plied the river, floating downstream on a glimmering road. Everywhere on the east of town, the highway was black and cluttered with travelers. Many of them were folks from Shrewsvale and villages to the west. They raced across the country on horse, on wagon, on foot.

Beyond them, three miles away, a cloud of dust rose in the hills where the reavers raged. From up here, the sound of their advance was louder, a continuous thunder.

People screamed across the miles.

“They’re all going to die,” Averan whispered. She climbed to the back of the wagon and stared out, feeling helpless.

She’d thought that she and Binnesman had done some good. They’d given the people all the warning that they could. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

“Not all of them,” Binnesman said. “We’ve saved some. Perhaps many.”

But as the buckboard topped the hill, she saw the reavers’ front ranks charging over a distant rise. Wagons and people fled before them.

A man’s legs would not carry him fast enough. Hiding would do no good. Men were less than mice before the reaver horde.

Gaborn’s troops fled in a long column, their armor flashing in the sun. They headed south into the hills, helpless before the onslaught.

Binnesman pulled Averan back. “Come away,” he warned. “Watching doesn’t do any good.”

But it does, Averan thought. Watching made her angry, and anger made her strong.

On a bald hill above Feldonshire, Gaborn tried to decide whether to make another stand. Hundreds of commoners had ridden up here on horseback. Most were young men who bore bows or spears. They were eager to prove themselves, hoped to earn the Choosing. Thus, Gaborn’s small army had begun to swell.

Still, he could do nothing for Feldonshire.

Below him lay his last hope: a stream cut through a narrow defile, and would provide some small distance between men and reavers. Farmers had built stone walls to keep their sheep from wandering into the ravine. Perhaps a hundred local men had taken position behind the eastern wall, and now stood with bows ready.

The reavers advanced on Feldonshire.

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.