David Farland - Wizardborn

Knights on their force horses raced to take them while they were down. Their silver mail flashed as horses wheeled and turned, darting after the slowest gray reavers. Through half-closed eyes, the knights reminded Averan for all the world of silver minnows in a pool, flashing in the sunlight as they struck at a bit of food.

The knights brought down a few hundred reavers, then wheeled their chargers south to a small hill nearly a mile and a half away. They formed ranks there. Lances bristled as they aimed at the sky. Local farmers and merchant boys rode up to meet them, swelling their ranks to thousands.

Closer to hand, the reavers that had reached the Stinkwater and drunk the most began to die. Muscle spasms caused them to flip to their sides, kicking dust in the air as they spun.

Those that drank only a little drew away from the fouled water after a swallow or two, and simply heaved the contents of their stomachs onto the ground. They groped about, almost too weak to move.

By far the vast majority of the reavers merely retreated from the ponds and stood, dazed with dehydration. Their philia drooped in exhaustion, hanging from their heads like dead vines. The rasping of their heavy breathing filled the air, becoming a dull rumble.

Dozens of reavers began to trudge in aimless circles, no longer cognizant of where they went.

From the south, a hundred force horses came charging over the plains out of the wooded hills. Gaborn led them, riding with Knight’s Equitable, as if to race the wind. He’d circled the reaver horde. Now he rode up toward Averan on the hillock. Skalbairn rode with him, along with Baron Waggit and many other knights.

Gaborn nodded at Averan and leapt from his horse, gazing west at the reavers. “What’s happening?” he demanded. His countenance was grim, determined.

“Their run to water has left them broken,” Binnesman answered. “I suspect that over half of the horde has succumbed.”

“Not quite half,” Gaborn said. “I estimate nearly forty thousand reavers left in the horde.”

“They’re dying,” Averan added. “They won’t make it back to Keep Haberd.”

“I think,” Wallachs said hopefully, “I think we’ve done it. I think we’ve won!”

Averan watched Gaborn as he licked his lips and stared hard at the reavers. Eventually they would all die, and Gaborn would lead her to the Waymaker. There she would feed, and learn the path to the One True Master.

“We haven’t won,” Gaborn told Wallachs. “They may die, but not without a fight.”

Even as he spoke, a great hissing erupted among the center of the horde.

A mage rose up high on her legs, began casting her scent far and wide.

The glowing runes on her body glimmered in the sun, and her staff suddenly blazed like white lightning.

Three Kills was her name. In Averan’s memory, she was young and fearsome, easily the most cunning mage in the horde. Only her relative youth and small size had kept her from leading the band before. Three more reavers rose up, faced Three Kills and began hissing in return.

“What’s happening?” Gaborn demanded.

“It’s an argument between lords,” Averan said. “They often argue.”

“Which one is their leader?” Gaborn asked.

Averan was astonished by the question. It was so obvious. “The one with her butt highest in the air. See how the others keep theirs lower? She’ll kill them if they don’t.”

Gaborn watched them so intently that Averan felt guilty for not being able to tell him more. He went to the lip of the hill, drew his warhammer and planted it in the ground, much as Binnesman did his staff. Then he held the handle, and peered at the reavers, as if trying to read their thoughts.

If I had the senses of a reaver, she knew, I’d be able to smell what they said. I’d know what they were arguing about.

But she only knew that an argument like this might last for an hour or more.

The sunlight seemed so bright, so painful. As the reavers held their council, Averan half closed her eyes.

Down in the valley below, Three Kills’s argument ended abruptly. A rival raised her tail slightly, and Three Kills leapt, thrust her crystalline staff through the sweet triangle of her adversary. There was a dull explosion, and the sorceress’s head ripped into ragged chunks.

She had had her say.

Now Three Kills snatched gobbets of her brain, while others in the horde ripped out the sweet glands below her legs.

The remaining reavers drew back, began rushing about, taking up new formations. They separated into nine camps, each led by a scarlet sorceress, each in the Form of War.

They turned and began stalking east, spreading to the north and south as they went. It was a distinctly odd maneuver for a reaver.

Reavers lived in tunnels, and tended to walk in single file through the Underworld—head to tail. That way, orders could be relayed backward easily.

Spreading their forces went against the reavers’ most fundamental instincts. More than that, the horde was heading downwind. They wouldn’t easily be able to smell adversaries in front of them.

“What are they doing?” Gaborn asked. “Is this what I think?”

Averan began shaking. She could see it all so clearly. The nine armies would create a front perhaps eight miles wide. Already Gaborn’s troops on the far hill recognized the danger and began to retreat. “You’re right. The reavers know they’re going to die,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in Feldonshire. They’ll hunt down as many peasants as they can. After that...”

“They’ll keep hunting,” Gaborn said. “I can sense ripples of danger everywhere. They’ll circle and head downriver, through city after city until they reach the Courts of Tide.

“Averan, how can I stop them?”

The reavers loped off to the east.

Averan thought quickly. Each time they’d killed a leader, the new mage had changed tactics. Even now, the other sorceresses questioned Three Kills’s wisdom. She’d led them to water, only to find it poisoned. The reavers were on the verge of mutiny.

“You must get rid of Three Kills...”

“Of course!” Gaborn said. But he’d lost sight of her. “Where is she?”

“The middle formation,” Averan answered.

His face paled. She knew that he was considering strategies, counting the potential cost. He looked grim, lost.

Skalbairn sat on his charger as Gaborn studied the reavers. Skalbairn could see the wheels of the lad’s mind turning as he considered how to best the reavers. The reavers were stalking toward Feldonshire.

The boy had no time to plot any elegant strategies. The main force of his cavalry held the hill to the west. But if Gaborn raced to them now, he would have to skirt the reavers’ lines. By the time he reached his men, the reavers would be into Feldonshire, hunting.

“Gentlemen,” Gaborn said firmly. “I believe we can stop the slaughter before it begins—but only at great cost.”

Gaborn looked up at the hundred men who had ridden with him, staring each in the eye. “I’m for the Underworld, and cannot lead the charge. And any man who rides now must consider his life forfeit. Will you ride?”

The lad was serious. Skalbairn had never seen an expression like Gaborn wore now. There was suffering and pain in his eyes, and sorrow in his brow, and a consuming need.

Skalbairn’s blood went chill. As a child he’d dreamt of being a warrior, and in his fondest dreams he’d imagined that an Earth King would arise someday, and Skalbairn would fight at his side.