David Farland - Wizardborn

Feykaald sighed heavily and glanced off to the east, out over the darkened battle plain to the Hest Mountains rising blue in the distance, and beyond them to Indhopal. “I only hope, my old friend, that for the sake of all of us, we do the right thing in supporting this Earth King. Do you think Gaborn will send aid to Indhopal?”

“I do,” Jureem said with finality. “Speak with him. Watch him closely, and you will see. The time may come when you wish to serve him with your whole heart.”

Feykaald looked him in the eye, his face a mask of hope. “Indeed, I well may, my brother,” Feykaald said. He reached up and squeezed Jureem’s bicep, as was the custom among his people.

Feykaald retrieved his horse. The magnificent gray Imperial charger had been through much over the past few days. The gelding had its endowments, but the endless ride had left it lean, almost to the point of being gaunt.

He found himself growing curious. Could Jureem be right? Would Gaborn really come to Indhopal’s aid? What powers might he have hidden inside him still?

If Feykaald could convince the boy to come, then dispatching him afterward would be that much easier.

By the time Feykaald got his horse saddled, the king and his retinue were issuing out over the plain. Feykaald raced to catch up.

Raj Ahten raced for Kartish filled with dread and a sense of purpose.

All of his years of work—all of his efforts to become the Sum of All Men, all of his training in war—were about to reach their climax.

He envisioned the reavers at Kartish gathered as they had been at Carris, with the Lord of the Underworld crouched upon a Rune of Desolation while legions of warriors guarded her. The image filled him with apprehension.

Yet many of Raj Ahten’s finest troops were also in Kartish. He envisioned knights charging across the plains, warriors clad in saffron surcoats, crimson capes flapping in the wind, lances slamming into reavers.

It would be a battle that children would hear of for centuries, as their fathers told the tales around the hearth at night.

So it was that dawn found him racing down from the Hest Mountains while the morning sun crept up behind him, filling the desert of Muttaya with light as if it were a winnower’s basket. The desert sands were the color of rose in the dawn, streaked in places with a faint hue of palest amethyst where streams boasted their lush vegetation. To the north stood the Hills of the Elephant Dream—ocher-colored stones heaped in blocks that looked like a herd of elephants from the distance.

Fifty miles off in the desert below he spotted a knot of riders spread out on the highway, men in dark robes—Wuqaz Faharaqin and the Ah’kellah—racing before him. At this distance, the shimmering air currents and dust of the road clouded his vision.

His mount was weary. Even this great stallion could not catch them easily. He needed a fresh horse.

Wuqaz and his men rode for Salandar, and from there would race to the heart of Indhopal. There Wuqaz would seek out any lord who might oppose Raj Ahten, any who harbored resentment or a treacherous nature, and try to inflame such men against him.

Raj Ahten knew that he could get a fresh mount there, but wondered how safe it might be. If these men suspected that he was on their trail, they might try to ambush him. Salandar would be the place for it.

In the morning light he also saw the balloon of his flameweavers, a bright speck like a blue graak high in the air. He’d bade them follow as best they could, but they rode the air currents faster than his force horse could manage.

At their speed, they’d reach Kartish before him.

From the mountains the desert appeared barren, lifeless. But as he rode down into the valleys, life revealed itself everywhere. Nightjars flitted among the shadowed trees in the hills, their gray wings fluttering languidly, catching moths that flew in the morning. Mountain sheep ran from his path, leaping over brown rocks. Fire-tailed weaver birds rose up from a streambed in raucous clouds.

Though he was at the border of the desert, the rains came often in winter to the pass, and trees grew in thickets in every fold of the mountains.

Raj Ahten had always loved the deserts of Indhopal.

As he passed the village of Hariq, he stopped at a well long enough to let some women, all dressed in white muslin with green shawls on their heads, draw water from the well for him and his mount. He’d ridden in upon a borrowed horse, without his armor, with his hooded cloak pulled over his face. To a casual observer, he seemed only an anonymous lord. With the murderous Ah’kellah ahead, he preferred it that way.

It was not until the women saw his face beneath the hood that they recognized him, and began to fawn over him.

The village was nearly empty, for at this time of year many of the mountain folk migrated south for the winter, following the Old Spice Way down into Indhopal.

Yet for those who stayed, it was a time of celebration. The harvests were in, and life seemed good.

He soon reached Salandar, with its white adobe walls baked as hard as stones over the centuries. He reached for his warhammer and rode with one hand on it, peering from beneath his hooded robe for sign of an ambush.

The markets were filled with vendors: men with woven baskets stuffed with pistachios, almonds, dried fava beans, pine nuts, chickpeas, lentils, rice, and groundnuts. Others hawked spices: cumin and zatar, sumac and coriander, allspice and saffron. Old women carried pots filled with boiled eggs or turnip pickles on their heads, or baskets loaded with olives, eggplants, or limes. In the meat markets animals hung by strings from their feet: pigeons, ground squirrels, and succulent young lambs.

The streets were filled with people. Nomad women in bright woven shawls in from the desert bartered for goods. Camel traders hawked their wares. Children raced about. Young men and women huddled in the shadows of vendors’ stalls to shyly hold hands. Qat dealers bundled their herbs and sold them in a dazed stupor. Old men played chess by the roadside, fanning themselves with palm leaves. Wealthy men with jewels pinned in their turbans took breakfast on their verandas overlooking the avenues, served by beautiful wives.

Red chickens strutted through the streets, while white rock doves swirled like snow over the gardens at every manor.

Nothing seemed amiss in Salandar.

He saw no sign of the Ah’kellah, and managed to negotiate the streets without drawing attention.

Raj Ahten stopped to trade his horse at the fortress and announce himself. He questioned the warlord in charge, a wiry man from Indhopal named Bhopanastrat, about the Invincibles. Bhopanastrat was a competent man who had served Raj Ahten well—from a distance.

“Some Invincibles did pass through an hour ago, and took fresh horses. Wuqaz Faharaqin led them.”

“Did he name their errand?”

Bhopanastrat shook his head. “He said that they were going to Maygassa.” Bhopanastrat bent near and whispered as if afraid to speak of a secret aloud. “It is said that there is trouble in Kartish. I thought...” He winked his left eye, to show that he knew how to keep a secret.

Raj Ahten seemed to be gaining on Wuqaz, but the man was still an hour ahead of him. He could not yet guess Wuqaz’s mission. He might well have lied to Bhopanastrat. Wuqaz was a portentous name. It meant “Breaker of Necks.” Among the Ah’kellah it was a title as much as a name. He would be a formidable adversary.