David Farland - Wizardborn

Myrrima smiled warmly and shot back, “A pint of ale? Is that all that they’re worth to you?”

Gaborn and Iome went to their mounts in the stables, and Iome held silent for a long moment. She could tell that Borenson’s bitter words had upset Gaborn. Borenson had always been open with Gaborn, and Iome thought them to be as close as brothers.

“He will heal,” Iome said as they strolled into the stable. “Binnesman promised.”

Gaborn shook his head. “No, I think not. Not really. We’ve used him badly. He’s angry at Raj Ahten, angry at me. And he’s suspicious. Zandaros is not likely to offer any concessions just because I send a friend as an ambassador. I might well be sending Borenson to his death.”

Iome bit her lower lip, troubled by what Gaborn said. Zandaros had cut off contact with Mystarria before Gaborn was ever born, and he’d sent an assassin to kill Gaborn. Zandaros sounded dangerous, but Iome knew that Inkarra was a strange land, with customs all its own.

“Are you sure you want Borenson to speak to King Zandaros?” Iome asked. “Zandaros’s nephew seemed to think that the Storm King would favor me—and I am your closest relation.”

Iome tried to make the offer sound as casual as possible. She did not want to go. It would be a long, hard journey to an unforeseeable end, and she would be risking her life as well as that of the son growing in her womb.

Gaborn shook his head. “No. Not you.”

She glanced up at his face. His gaze was directed inward.

They entered the stable, found their mounts to be well fed. The horses’ manes and tails were plaited, and the beasts had been washed and combed. Gaborn’s horse wore barding that had been brought from Carris during the night. The beast’s armor gleamed like silver. The chaffron on its head had a twisted horn that spiraled up, and the plate mail on the horse’s chest and flanks was burnished. Beneath its armor was a quilt covered in white silk. It looked like some marvelous beast that had walked out of the clouds.

The lords in Carris wanted Gaborn to make a grand entrance, a triumphal entry to lift the spirits of his people. Iome and his Wits thought it expedient. Paldane’s old chancellor, Galantine, had sent a message warning that rumors in Carris had begun to spread, to the effect that Gaborn had been slain in battle. “It would ease the people’s minds,” he said, “if Gaborn would come.”

So Gaborn would parade once around the city, but only because he needed to pass by on his way to battle.

The reavers would be racing south over the open plains today, and he planned to lead his men against them. He needed Averan’s help in finding the Waymaker.

All through the night, he had huddled with his counselors, plotting the deed. Reports from Skalbairn came in hourly. The reavers had dug into burrows once it got cold, and by dawn they had still not stirred.

The night’s storm had similarly delayed Gaborn’s departure from Balington. He dared not send warriors racing on force horses in the dark, over roads that had turned to mud.

Thus, though the weather slowed Gaborn, it had stymied the reavers completely. The reavers had traveled only forty miles in the length of the night. This gave Gaborn a great advantage.

He’d sent to castles in his lands south of the Brace Mountains and ordered lances, ballistas, and food delivered close to the reavers’ trail.

In the early hours of the morning, messengers brought more good news: the rain had almost completely bypassed everything south of the Brace Mountains.

The fields would be dry—perfect for a cavalry charge.

Once Gaborn had felt as ready as he could be to face the reavers, he’d consulted with his counselors and drawn up missives to send to kings throughout Rofehavan.

Long through the night, he’d acted on matters both monumental and mundane. He’d drafted plans for the evacuation of Carris, and for sending the Indhopalese troops to help defend his castles to the north. He’d sent bribes to various lords, including an offer to hire mercenaries out of Internook to protect his coast.

Another messenger, one from Heredon, brought astonishing information: Gaborn had offered aid in putting down the reaver horde that had arisen there. But the Iron King sent back a curt missive declining his offer. The courier himself had heard news that the Iron King had easily defeated the reaver horde.

The reavers had surfaced on the northern coast and marched south along the seashore. A lucky ballista shot from a ship slew the fell mage that led the horde. Her followers immediately retreated.

Now Gaborn was ready to ride for Carris.

Gaborn and Iome mounted their chargers, rode out of the stable. Six young heralds, all dressed in the blue of House Orden with the symbol of the green man upon their surcoats, rode before the entourage. All six heralds had long blond hair, and bore golden trumpets.

Following them, a seventh young man would bear the king’s standard.

A wain had pulled up outside, and the knights in Gaborn’s retinue each took a long white lance from it, and held it high, so that the lances bristled overhead like spines.

The knights themselves were a mixed bunch, wearing colors from half a dozen kingdoms, to signify that Gaborn was not the lord of one land only, but of the whole Earth.

Jureem, Binnesman, the wylde, and now young Averan would ride with the king’s counselors near the van of the troop. Near the end of the train followed an inconspicuous wagon that bore Gaborn’s forcibles.

As Gaborn rode out of the stables, his men gave a cheer. Binnesman spurred his mount forward and handed Gaborn the branch of an oak tree to bear, as if it were a scepter, though a bit of ivy still clung to it.

So Gaborn began his ride to Carris looking like an Earth King out of the old tales.

Yet to Iome he seemed preoccupied.

They had ridden six miles down the road when the heralds in the vanguard topped a woody knoll, turned their mounts, and shouted, “Milord, there are giants ahead!”

They needn’t have yelled the warning, for at that very moment, a Frowth giant topped the hill and stood peering at Gaborn.

A huge red stallion, hanging limp with a broken neck, was clearly visible upon the giant’s hunched back. The giant’s golden fur looked dirty and matted in the morning light. He was an old Frowth, with streaks of white in his hair, and his silver eyes were as huge as bowls. He had iron studs in his ears, and one through his nose. Lockets of hair beneath his long snout were braided in warrior’s knots.

“Wahoot!” the giant cried, raising his snout in the air. Pigeons in the nearby oaks flew up in alarm and began to circle. Iome knew nothing of the tongue of Frowth giants, and had no idea what the creature had said, although he’d sounded victorious. Soon other giants came running uphill, their thick mail rattling like the chains to a drawbridge.

The first giant reached up with one hand, hurled the dead horse into the road. Other giants came and did the same—twenty-two giants in all. They left a grisly pile of dead horses before Gaborn’s retinue.

They’re like cats that way, Iome realized, leaving headless mice on their master’s doorstep. The leader of the giants bowed his head and closed his eyes, his enormous front arms extended before him and crossed at the wrists. “Wahoot!” the Frowth shouted again.

Gaborn sat in his saddle, looking perplexed. Most of his men were gaping in awe at the monsters.

It was an eerie moment. Until a hundred and twenty years ago, no one had ever seen a Frowth. Then, during a brutal winter, a tribe of four hundred of the huge creatures migrated over the northern ice. Many of them were wounded and scarred, and apparently fled some unknown enemy.