David Farland - Wizardborn

“But you smelled something?”

“Just his death scream. When reavers die, they warn others away. Otherwise, I can’t smell them at all.”

Gaborn went to the hole above the anus of the monster. The philia there were wet and sticky, more like sweaty glands than the philia that graced a reaver’s head. He could smell something there, certainly. Though Averan described it as a “scream,” the scent seemed mild, like moldy garlic.

“What does the scent mean?” Gaborn asked. If he was to go into the Underworld, he needed to learn to translate the reavers’ language of scents.

“It means ‘Death is here. Run away,’ ” Averan said, translating as best she could.

Averan sighed, looked down at the endless string of reavers stretched out for more than a mile ahead. “Let’s mark this one. If I don’t find one that I feel better about, we’ll try him.” Averan acted shy, self-conscious about eating the thing in public. It was, after all, a highly unnatural act.

“All right,” Gaborn said. He glanced about, thinking to stack some rocks in front of the beast, but the dark soil here in the furrow had been trampled by tens of thousands of reavers, and seemed nearly as hard as stone. At last he took off his right gauntlet and laid it in the reaver’s gaping mouth.

He and Averan trundled on. A knight came riding up through the furrow, weaving among the monsters. Gaborn could hear the jangle of his ring mail and the pounding horses’ hooves before the man rounded a carcass. It was Skalbairn.

“Good news, milord,” he said. “We’ve counted nearly thirty-three hundred dead reavers in this one charge alone.”

Gaborn could hardly credit such numbers. He had fewer than twenty-five hundred knights in his retinue, and had lost only one in a hundred men.

He must have been beaming. After Skalbairn left, Averan looked up at him. “You look like the cat that ate the bird.”

“It’s a good day,” Gaborn said. “It’s a great victory.”

Averan shook her little head. “You mustn’t think that, milord. Most of these reavers were innocent. Most of” them were...like peasants.” She had a challenge in her tone.

“You talk about them as if they were people,” Gaborn said. “But these ‘peasants’ marched on Carris. They killed tens of thousands of people, and would have killed them all.”

“They only did it because their master told them,” Averan argued. “It’s not the little reavers you have to kill—it’s the One True Master. She’s your enemy.”

The child spoke with such conviction. He noted her appearance. This morning he would have thought her a normal child, a girl of nine with red hair and freckles and a determined gleam in her eye.

Now he saw that it was an illusion. Looking closely, he could detect the faintest green hue to her face, like bits of greenish mica that caught and reflected the sunlight.

She doesn’t look like a common child, he decided. There’s more of Binnesman to her than I’d have first thought. And like the Earth Warden who serves as her master, she seems to care as much about the health of snakes as she does about mice, reavers as much as men.

Averan neared another reaver. The garlicky scent was strong about this one, and Averan almost staggered away. “That one is rank,” she said. “He must have died slowly.”

Gaborn didn’t doubt that she was right.

“Do you think you could learn to talk to the reavers?” Gaborn asked.

“How? In case you didn’t notice,” Averan said, “I don’t have any philia.”

“But if you could mix smells,” Gaborn said. “For example, if you took garlic, couldn’t you approximate the words?”

Averan looked up at him, stunned. “I never thought of that!” She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Garlic isn’t right. The death warning isn’t really very much like garlic. It would be like yelling ‘breath’ when you meant ‘death.’ ” Yet he’d planted a seed in her mind. “Maybe, though, I might be able to write a few words,” she mused.

Gaborn let his imagination soar. To be able to speak to the reavers! What would I say to them? But he had no idea. He didn’t know their language, couldn’t think how he might communicate with them.

Averan had him mark two more reavers as they went, until at length they reached the end of the line.

Then she turned back to the reaver that they had marked.

Gaborn took his sword and crawled up into the reaver’s mouth. Its teeth hung overhead like green icicles. He thrust his blade into the monster’s soft palate and sliced. The inky blood of the reaver drained from the wound, and rained in clotted clumps at his feet.

He stood for a long time, letting the blood flow, before he reached up and actually pulled out his prize—a huge handful of steaming reaver brains, like gray worms bathed in the reaver’s dark blood.

He gave the brains to Averan, and turned his back as she fed. She chewed quietly, making appreciative sounds.

He climbed up on a reaver, looked to the south. He could see no sign of the horde at the moment. The last of them had climbed the hills toward Mangan’s Rock, two miles to the south. Now they were in a depression. Only a haze in that direction let him know that the reavers still fled.

It had been a glorious battle, a stunning victory. Yet he watched as knights picked up their fallen comrades and carried them to the wains. The dead and wounded were laid in the same boxes that had been used to haul the lances from Carris. It was an economical use, Gaborn supposed, and the dead would not mind that they were carted about without ceremony. Still, it seemed an unfitting end to the battle, an indecorous end to a human life.

A contingent of lords saw him, came riding along the field. Their faces were shining, expectant. Many of them were mighty warriors: Queen Herin the Red of Fleeds, High Marshal Skalbairn of the Knights Equitable, Sir Langley of Orwynne.

Skalbairn shouted, “We’re ready to go when you are. I had lances transported from Carris and Castle Fells last night down to Ballyton, not twenty miles down the road. In half an hour, we can rearm and make another pass.”

Gaborn considered it, and the Earth’s warning came almost as a wail. If he dared attempt a second charge, the reavers would devastate his troops.

“We’ll rearm, and take lunch in Ballyton,” Gaborn said, stalling for time to come up with another plan. He could see by their faces that they’d hoped for instant battle. “The reavers are forewarned. We won’t take them unprepared next time.”

The look of consternation on Langley was impossible to miss. But Skalbairn said simply, “As my lord commands.”

Gaborn climbed off his gruesome perch.

Averan had just finished her meal. She knelt down and wiped her fingers in the dirt.

He asked, “Did we get the right one—the Waymaker?”

Averan merely shrugged. “I don’t know yet. It takes a while.”

“How long is a while?”

Averan thought. “About three or four hours.”

At that moment, horns began to blow over the horizon. Gaborn raced out of the gully, up onto the edge of the plains, as riders came over the hill to the south.

One of them was shouting. “The reavers are climbing Mangan’s Rock! We’ve run them to ground.”

Myrrima stood quietly in the dry grass and drew an arrow to her ear. The dyed goose pinions lightly grazed her cheek.

She faced a dead reaver at eighty yards, took aim at its sweet triangle.