David Farland - Wizardborn

But he’d never dreamt of it like this. The Earth King never asked him to die.

There was a moment of silence from the lords. Skalbairn knew that his men would ride, but none wanted to be the first to speak.

“In the world to come,” Skalbairn inquired, “may I ride beside you in the Great Hunt?”

“Aye,” Gaborn said. “Any man who rides now will ride with me then.” It was an empty promise, Skalbairn knew. Not all men rose as wights.

Skalbairn spat on the ground. ” ‘Tis a bargain, then!”

A cheer rose from the men at Skalbairn’s back. Some drew their war-hammers and beat them against shields, others waved their lances.

The only man who did not cheer was Baron Waggit, who sat silently on his mount, thinking. It was a capacity new to him, Skalbairn reasoned, an unfamiliar tool.

Gaborn raised a hand, warning them to silence.

“We’ll need a diversion,” Gaborn said. He drew a hexagon on the ground. “You’ll break into three squadrons. We’ll send fifty men on a charge here to the left, another fifty to charge to the right. As the reavers’ move to attack, it should thin the line here at the front. A small force of men on fast horses can race through the lines and lance the mage.”

“Milord,” Skalbairn asked, “may I volunteer to strike the blow?”

The lad’s face was pale. He took a deep breath, nodded.

Skalbairn was sure then that he would die. Marshal Chondler said, “I’ll ride with him, as should any man of the Brotherhood of the Wolf.”

With that, a third man made the offer, Lord Kellish, and Gaborn nodded, and said, “That’s enough.”

Gaborn stared evenly at the hundred Knights Equitable who were going to ride into battle, said in a solemn tone, “Thank you. I’ll need each of you to fight like reavers now.”

Gaborn pulled out his warhorn and said, “The left wing charge on my command, two blasts quickly. The right wing will go on one blast long. Skalbairn, I’ll ride with you part of the way.”

Skalbairn and the knights quickly dismounted, checked their girth straps. Not every man had a lance, but every man wanted one. He quickly checked his charger’s hooves. The heavy war shoes were all in place. The leather bindings for its barding were tight.

For years, Skalbairn had lived as a moral failure. For years he had believed that only death might bring him some release.

He pulled off his purse, looked up at Baron Waggit. The young man sat on his horse, looking grim and thoughtful. He was big, handsome in a brutish sort of way, with a color of blond hair favored back in Internook. He wasn’t riding into battle, and that was good. He knew that this fight was beyond him. Maybe he’d never be a warrior. He’d make a fine farmer, or perhaps someday go back to the mines. With any luck, he’d live to a ripe old age. Right now, that was all that Skalbairn wanted from the man.

Damn it, Skalbairn thought. A day ago we all thought him a fool, and now he’s wiser than all the rest of us put together.

“Waggit,” Skalbairn called. The young man turned, his pale blue eyes piercing in the midmorning sun. “Some gold. I’d be grateful if you’d take it to my daughter, Farion. See that she’s well cared for.”

Waggit considered the request.

Skalbairn felt certain that if Waggit saw the girl, he’d feel for her plight. Waggit knew better than any man the world his idiot daughter was trapped in. He’d recognize her virtues and her goodness. His daughter was as kind as she was simple, and her smile was as infectious as a plague. She’d never make another man a proper wife. She could do small chores—bring in firewood or pluck a chicken for dinner. All she needed was a good man, capable of loving her. He’d need to be a patient man to care for her, to buy goods at the market, and help her rear her children—one forgiving of her weaknesses.

Skalbairn whispered to the Powers, Let him be that man.

Waggit nodded. “I’ll give it to her.”

“May the Bright Ones protect you,” Skalbairn said softly.

Skalbairn climbed on his horse, spurred the mount down the slope, leading the way. There was no more time for niceties.

In moments, Gaborn and the others all gathered around him, and the assault began without fanfare, a hundred men against more than three thousand reavers.

The reavers were running fast, heading toward Feldonshire, loping over the plains with their backs to him, each reaver like a gray hill.

Skalbairn let his huge black charger race. He dropped his lance into a couch. Beside him, a hundred men fanned out. The sulfur and alkali crusting the plains muted the sound of the horse’s hooves, and went flying as they charged.

The plain was as flat and barren of stones as it could be. There were painfully few trees or bushes, hardly even any grass.

He’d never had a better surface for a cavalry charge.

Langley veered to the right, leading fifty men to the far side of the hexagon. Lord Gulliford guided another fifty left.

“Ranks three deep,” Gaborn said to Skalbairn, Marshal Chondler, and Lord Kellish. “Make sure that you cut through the lines!”

Gaborn sounded two blasts short. Gulliford’s riders gave their chargers their heads.

Gaborn sounded one blast long, and Langley’s men swept to the right, driving hard.

Gaborn held his three champions back. Baron Waggit rode beside them.

Skalbairn reined his mount, watched the enemy lines.

Gulliford’s men swept into the reavers, lanced dozens from behind, then veered away from the front, riding as if in a Knight’s Circus. The reavers spun to face them, blade-bearers closing ranks to form a wall of flesh while sorceresses leveled their staves and hurled dire spells. Clouds of green smoke rained down on the fifty. In the mountains the reavers had thrown stones, but the sandy soil here left their artillery with nothing at hand. Only half a dozen men fell under the onslaught.

Almost immediately, Langley’s men hit the reavers’ right flank.

As Gaborn had predicted, the untrained reavers broke rank on both flanks, rushed to do battle.

Thus the front before Skalbairn thinned.

“Fare thee well!” Gaborn shouted.

“Till we meet in the shadowed vale!” Skalbairn roared, and spurred his mount. The ground blurred beneath his charger’s feet. Skalbairn’s black stallion had three endowments of metabolism, and would rank among the fastest in the world. Many better endowed mounts could hit speeds of eighty or ninety miles an hour, but his outraced them.

To hit a reaver at that speed would surely leave him dead. To fall from his horse would break every bone in his body.

Skalbairn held his lance steady. He glanced back, saw Chondler a hundred yards behind him, followed by Lord Kellish.

He spurred his mount and shouted, “Faster!”

Many of the blade-bearers held no weapons at all. He aimed his mount between two of them.

At two hundred yards he drew close enough so that the reavers could sense him. But with his mount racing at over a hundred miles an hour, the reavers barely had time to spin. Without a glory hammer or a blade for the reavers to defend themselves, he darted easily between the first ranks.

A hiss of warning rose from reavers all around.

Off to his right, a quick-thinking sorceress hurled a spell.

A billowing stench flowed out behind him, bowled into the lines ahead, staggering a blade-bearer.

He swerved left now, into the second rank of reavers, never slowing. These were smaller beasts, without weapons. A reaver off to his right did not even spin to meet him. It was loping along, philia dangling, dead on its feet.

He aimed his mount toward it.

He heard the clatter of armor behind him—a shattering lance and a man shouting a war cry. A horse screamed. Reaver spells exploded in the air.