David Farland - Wizardborn

“Carving up the world should not be so hard to do,” Anders said. “I want very little of it. I’ll take Heredon.” Olmarg raised a single white brow. Heredon was no small bit of land, but Olmarg would have no use for it. “Lowicker’s daughter will want western Mystarria, along with her vengeance. You’ll want the coast—”

“Everything within two hundred miles of shore,” Olmarg said sternly.

“A hundred and fifty,” Anders suggested. “We’ll want to leave something for the others.”

“Others?”

“I’ve received missives from Alnick, Eyremoth, and Toom. Dignitaries should be arriving shortly.”

“A hundred and fifty,” Olmarg agreed. But he added thoughtfully, “On the other hand, what if Gaborn is indeed the Earth King? Could we stand against him? Dare we stand against him?”

Anders laughed, a sound that reverberated through the quiet room and made the hounds sleeping before the hearth look up in anticipation. “He’s nothing but a fraud.”

But Anders tried to sound more self-assured than he felt. The beast hidden within him lent him special powers. Anders could hear voices carried on the wind from far off. He could smell scents from miles away. But even the wind took time to travel.

He wished that he knew how Gaborn’s battle with Raj Ahten had ended. But that news would not come until later. At Anders’s assertion, Olmarg sliced off the pig’s other ear, and they celebrated.

With these affairs of state in hand, Anders climbed to the towers of his castle early in the night, found his wife brushing her hair in the bedchamber.

Her back was stiff with anger. As he crossed the room, she followed him with her eyes, raking her brush through her hair as if she were trying to rid it of burrs.

“You seem upset,” Anders said casually. He knew the source of her anger, sought to divert her attention. “You should be overjoyed. The news was good today. I have done little but worry about the reavers rumored to be in North Crowthen, and now we hear that my cousin has driven them back.”

“A lucky shot with a ballista killed their fell mage,” his wife groused, “and the sorceresses beneath her harvested her brain. There is nothing to rejoice about. They’ll return in greater numbers.”

“Yes,” Anders said, as if to put a bright face on it. “But next time, my cousin will be better prepared for them.”

His wife did not speak for a long moment. He let the tension build, until the words broke from her. “Why do you lower yourself like this? We should have no dealings with barbarians from Internook. They stink of filth and whale blubber. And those tales you told—”

“Were all true,” King Anders countered.

“True?” she demanded. “You accused Gaborn Val Orden of murdering King Lowicker?”

“Lowicker defied Gaborn today, denied him passage through Beldinook, just as I said. For that, Gaborn slaughtered him as a man would slaughter a steer.”

“How do you know this? There have been no couriers!” she shouted. “There could not have been: I’d have seen them.”

Years of neglecting his physical needs had left Anders thin and starved-looking, a rag of a man. He drew himself up, trying to appear authoritative. “I received the message privately.” He did not want to argue the point. His wife knew full well that she had been at the table with him all afternoon. Had even a private messenger arrived, she’d have seen him.

Her mouth twisted in anger. He could tell that she was about to rail at him. He silently gathered a spell, reached out and touched her lips with his forefinger. “Shhh...” he said. “A message did come by word of mouth only. No doubt we will hear more details by morning.”

Hearing the Earth’s summons, believing that he would find the city besieged by Raj Ahten’s troops. Instead he’d found Raj Ahten surrounded by a ghastly horde of reavers, trapped.

He’d used his newfound powers as Earth King to summon a world worm—a beast of legend—from the Earth’s core to dislodge the reavers.

The aftermath of that battle would be sung for a thousand years, Myrrima felt sure. The carnage took her breath away.

To the south lay a field of dead reavers, enormous and black in the darkness, their wet carapaces gleaming in the wan light as if they were a plague of dead frogs. Men and women swarmed among them, torches in hand. The plains were terribly broken and uneven, pocked with thousands of burrows. Squads of troops armed with spears and battle-axes were searching every nook for live reavers. But not all of the people out there were warriors. Some were coming from the city to cart off the dead and wounded—mothers looking for sons, children hunting for parents.

A reaver suddenly lunged from a burrow three quarters of a mile away, and out on the plain screams arose with the blaring of warhorns. The reaver charged straight for a knot of footmen. Knights on chargers galloped to intercept the monster.

“By my father’s honor,” shouted one lord of Orwynne, “there’s still reavers about! This battle’s not won yet!”

The lords spurred their mounts down to what was left of the Barrens Wall. Beneath its arch, beside a bonfire, a dozen footmen huddled beneath muddy capes with hands wrapped around their longspears.

“Halt!” they called as the lords approached. A couple of guards struggled up. They wore mismatched armor, marking them as Knights Equitable.

Their bright eyes reflected the firelight. Jubilantly their leader shouted, “Most of the reavers are in a rout—fleeing south the way that they came. Skalbairn asks that any man who can bear a lance give chase with him! But there’s still a few of the damned things holed up in their burrows, if you’ve a mind to fight here.”

“Skalbairn is chasing the horde in the dark? In the rain?” Sir Hoswell shouted. “Is he mad?”

“The Earth King is with us, and no one can stand against us!” the guard shouted. “If you’ve ever had a fancy to slay a reaver and win some glory, tonight’s the night for it. Some simpleton from Silverdale killed a dozen on the city walls today with nothing more than a pickax. True men like you should do as well—or better.” His tone was challenging.

The guard raised a wineskin in salute. Myrrima saw that the man’s eyes gleamed from more than mere jubilation. He was half drunk, reveling in the victory. Obviously Skalbairn’s men didn’t know that Gaborn could no longer warn his Chosen warriors of danger.

Even though they’d been Chosen only a few hours ago, Myrrima could see how these men were already becoming complacent. Why should they keep a close guard so long as the Earth King would warn them of danger?

Obviously, Skalbairn’s men hadn’t heard the latest. Gaborn had used his abilities to dislodge the reavers from Carris, but in the aftermath of the battle, he’d sought to use his gift to kill Raj Ahten.

For misusing those protective powers, the Earth had withdrawn them—including the ability to warn Gaborn’s Chosen warriors of danger.

These men, blithely celebrating their victory, had no idea how much trouble they were in. The Earth had charged Gaborn to help “Save a seed of mankind through the dark times to come.” Full night was not yet upon them.

Myrrima glanced right and left at the lords of the Brotherhood of the Wolf—sober men with hard faces. They’d come to fight, but hadn’t bargained for such madness.

“I’ll warn Paldane’s men,” Sir Giles of Heredon offered.

“Wait,” Myrrima said. “Are you sure that’s wise? Who knows where the rumors might fly, how the tale might grow in its travels?”

“The Earth King warned us that he has lost his powers in order save our lives,” Baron Tewkes of Orwynne said. “He can’t hide the truth, and we can’t hide it for him.”