David Farland - Wizardborn

Afterward, they left the city, and Borenson stopped to hammer a pair of teeth from a reaver as war trophies, one for him and one for her. He said that he would have them carved.

Afterward they raced past Carris, and soon reached the Brace Mountains. The lower flanks of the foothills were a dim gray, but farther up the autumn colors sizzled on the mountainsides, and a fresh snow dazzled the peaks.

The reavers had cut a trail through the mountains, but Myrrima and Borenson followed the road.

Soon they would catch up with Gaborn. Myrrima dreaded the meeting: she considered what she should really say if the knights and lords asked about her husband’s injury.

In the foothills south of the Brace Mountains, Gaborn’s road opened to a switchback on a plateau. The sky had dusted the Brace with snow during the night, but here the morning was cool and the ground clear.

He halted beneath a trio of poplars, and his Days drew rein beside him. Their golden leaves rustled in the wind as he gazed down on the plains below. Reavers marched down there in a line, some sixty thousand strong. The reavers trekked in loose ranks eight or ten individuals across, in a line no less than ten miles long. They wove among the hills, crossing a silver stream crowded with woods. If Gaborn squinted, the reavers looked like a huge gray serpent slithering across the cold grasslands. Ahead, the old fallen castle at Mangan’s Rock loomed just out of the serpent’s reach, with the great statue of Mangan himself standing boldly, staring above the monsters.

Iome gasped at the sight, and whispered, “I never imagined there would be so many.” Gaborn knew that she had seen images of them in Binnesman’s Seer Stones, but somehow the stones had not conveyed the enormity of what they faced.

Even at this distance, the ground rumbled at their passage, and the hissing as they vented air was a muted whisper.

He gazed upon them in consternation. The reaver he sought had to be down there, somewhere.

Skalbairn’s men had killed many reavers during the night, but Gaborn’s search among the dead for the Waymaker yielded nothing. Averan had examined two reavers that nearly matched her description. Both turned out to be too small.

Which meant that the reaver he sought was still alive.

The hills were dry and nearly barren south of the mountains. The rainstorm last night had missed this land completely. Dust rose up from the feet of the reavers like a trail of drifting smoke that mingled with the gree that flocked overhead.

To the west of the reavers Skalbairn’s men rode in two separate bands. One band of a thousand knights kept pace with the reavers about six miles ahead. The noonday sun flashed off shield and helm and lance. The men looked petty, insignificant. The rest of the army, perhaps another fifteen hundred knights along with various squires and a caravan of wains, ventured near the tail of the reavers’ lines, riding as a sort of rear guard to confront the reavers if they should turn back to Carris. Lances bristled up among their ranks like white spines.

Gaborn’s mouth grew dry from anticipation. He could sense a rising danger. The reavers would not let this go on, would not be harried like this.

Gaborn’s heralds blew their golden horns.

Down on the plain Skalbairn’s men turned, looked up to the hills, and began to cheer. They waved lances and shields. Several men in Skalbairn’s company peeled off, came galloping across the plains toward him. Gaborn decided to wait, get Skalbairn’s latest report.

“Company, halt!” Gaborn called to his troops. Nearly half a mile back, the giants were still running hard, trying to keep up. One of them roared in anticipation of a few moments’ rest.

Beside him, Binnesman’s wylde spotted the reavers and cried out in delight, “Reaver blood!”

“Yes,” Averan whispered excitedly, like a little girl talking to her best friend. “I’ll bet there’s some yummy ones out there.”

Gaborn glanced over at the child resting comfortably on the saddle with the wizard at her back. She focused totally on the reavers.

“Tell me,” Gaborn said. “This Waymaker. Do you think you could spot it from a distance if we rode alongside the reavers’ ranks?”

Averan looked terrified at the very notion. “If we got close enough.”

But he knew it would be almost impossible. The reavers were running in a horde, and no one would dare get within three hundred yards of them.

“Do you have any hint where we might start looking?” Gaborn asked in frustration.

“I...don’t know. There are lots of reavers. He’s important, so he should be up near the front. Or maybe near the back.”

“Or perhaps in the middle,” one lord offered.

“Can you add to the description?” Gaborn said. “I might be able to put my far-seers to use.”

Averan shook her head. “I...don’t think I can add anything. Reavers don’t have eyes. They don’t see things like we do. I—I might be able to recognize him by the smell—but then, I might not. I’m not sure that people can smell as good as reavers do.”

Gaborn grinned coldly.

“If we find it,” Averan asked. “Do I have to eat it in front of people?”

One of the lords in the retinue made a coughing noise, to cover the sound of his laugh.

“No,” Gaborn promised.

At that moment, there was the sound of galloping hooves on the trail behind, and Gaborn looked back up the road, expecting another messenger.

A young man with straw-colored hair rode into view round the bend on a plain brown mare. He slowed and warily eyed the Frowth giants as he passed beneath their shadows. Gaborn tried vainly to remember where he’d seen the man. He could not place him, until he saw the pickax hanging from his saddlebags. “Baron Waggit,” the lords began to mutter. The baron was wearing a new brown robe and leather armor, and had his yellow hair tied back. And he wore a new light of understanding in his eyes. Thus attired, his own mother would have been hard put to identify him.

The young baron rode up. He studied the king’s men as if he’d never truly seen them before.

He reached the back of the king’s retinue, rode past the knights and lords, and they broke into a cheer as he neared.

He reined in his mount just before Gaborn. The smell of rum followed him.

“Baron Waggit, you’re looking well,” Gaborn said.

Waggit wiped his nose on his sleeve in a foolish habit. “Thanks. Um, thank you. Uh, milord.” He still knew nothing of courtly graces. He might have the sense of a common man now, but he had much to learn.