David Farland - Wizardborn

But the end of man was nigh. Five days? he wondered—certainly no more than a week. His mouth grew dry, and Gaborn could not catch his breath.

It can’t be! he told himself. I’m imagining it.

But cold certainly began to creep into his bones.

In the streets, shuttered windows stared at him, like vacant eyes. He felt trapped in a hamlet of shadows.

Gaborn spurred his horse, taking a long lead. Iome, Celinor, Erin, Jureem, Binnesman, and the wylde all hurried to keep up. Thankfully, none of them drew near or spoke.

Just north of the village, Gaborn turned left on the track toward Balington. He remembered the village fondly from his youth, and had decided to spend the night there. He recalled its serenity, its lush gardens. It was a place strong in the Earth Powers, a place where he could commune with his master. The village lay only three miles off the road.

The horses made toward a pair of hills that stood like sentinels. The open fields gave way to a grove of majestic beech trees whose limbs soared high overhead.

As they reached the hills, Gaborn rounded a bend. An overturned cart blocked the highway. At the margin of the road, six swarthy figures huddled around a small fire, warming themselves in the cool night.

They leapt up as he approached. All six men were abnormally short, almost dwarfish. They bore an odd array of weapons—the spoke from a wagon wheel, a cleaver, a reaping hook, two axes for chopping wood, and a makeshift spear. They wore leather work aprons instead of armor. Their leader had a grizzled beard and eyebrows like woolly black caterpillars.

“Hold,” he shouted. “Hold where you are. There’s a hundred archers in them trees. Make any false move, and you’ll be leaking like a winepress.”

It took Gaborn a moment to realize that all six “men” were not men at all. Most were boys in their teens—brothers by the look of them. Like their father, they were so short as to be dwarfish. They had their father’s curly hair and strangely blunt nose. Yet they couldn’t see beyond the light of their campfire; their threat was laughable.

“A hundred archers?” Gaborn asked as Iome and the others drew up at his back. “I’d think you could turn your king into a pincushion with half as many.” He rode into the firelight.

The six men dropped to their knees, gaping at the lords before them. “We saw your lordship riding south this morning!” one shouted. “We thought looters might head this way. It’s our homes, you see.”

“And we heard the earth groan, and saw the cloud rise up over Carris!” another added.

“Is it true?” a young man asked. “Are you really the Earth King?” At that, all of the young men knelt and watched Gaborn expectantly.

Am I the Earth King? he wondered. How am I to answer that question now?

He knew what they wanted. Six small men without an endowment between them, come to hold the road against Raj Ahten’s Invincibles. He’d seldom heard of such foolery—or such valor. They wanted his protection. They wanted him to Choose them.

He’d have done so if he could. In the past weeks, he’d had time to reflect on what he valued in mankind. His Days said that he valued men of insight, while others valued men of strength and cunning.

But Gaborn saw now that he valued most those who loved and lived well. He valued men of sound conscience and unwavering resolve, men who dared stand against the darkness when hope was slim. He felt honored to be in the presence of these good common folk.

“I’m no Earth King,” Gaborn admitted. “I can’t Choose you.”

The lads could not hide their disappointment, not by any act of will—even in the shadows thrown by the campfire. They let out hopeful breaths, and each of them seemed to collapse just a bit.

“Ah, well,” the father mused, “not the Earth King maybe, but you’re our king. Welcome to Balington, Milord.”

“Thank you,” Gaborn said.

He spurred his mount ahead in the darkness, past the men and on beneath the beech trees. His friends rode behind. Silence followed at their backs. The night was growing cold. Warm air escaped his nostrils like fog.

He found himself breathing hard, afraid that at any moment a wracking sob would escape.

Another mile down the road, where soft hills flowed together, he reined in his horse, and the others rode up behind. He’d had enough.

“It’s time,” Gaborn said to the small group. “I must speak with the Earth.”

“You’ll try so soon?” Binnesman asked. “Are you certain? The Earth withdrew its powers from you only two hours ago. You understand that the chances of a favorable response are slim?”

“I am certain,” Gaborn said.

There are ceremonies that wizards perform that common men do not attend. Gaborn looked back at his followers. “Jureem, you’ll care for the horses. Erin, Celinor, stay with him. The rest, come with me.”

He dismounted. Clouds were rushing in from the south, and only faint, broken starlight shone overhead.

Iome swung from her mount and took his hand hesitantly. “Are you sure you want me there?”

“Yes,” Gaborn said. “I’m sure.”

Binnesman took his staff and led the way, his wylde in tow. He ushered them up a narrow defile, following a stony path made by goats and cattle.

“One who approaches the Powers,” Binnesman counseled as they climbed the trail, “one who seeks a boon, must do so in the proper frame of mind. It is not enough to merely seek a blessing. You must be pure of heart and single-minded in your purpose. You must set aside your anger at Raj Ahten, your fears for the future, and your selfish desires.”

“I’m trying,” Gaborn said. “The Earth and I both want the same thing. We want to save my people.”

“If you could sublimate your desires wholly,” Binnesman said, “you would be the most powerful wizard that this world has ever known. You would sense the Earth’s needs and become a perfect tool for fulfilling them. Its protective powers would flow to you without restraint. But you have rejected the Earth’s needs on multiple counts. The Earth bade you to save a seed of mankind, yet you seek to save them all—even those like Raj Ahten that you know are unworthy.”

“I’m sorry!” Gaborn whispered. But even as he did, he wondered, Who is worthy to live? Even if I regain my powers, who am I to decide?

“Far more serious than this first offense was the second. You were granted the ability to warn your charges of danger. But you tried to corrupt it, to turn the powers of preservation into a weapon.”

“Raj Ahten was attacking my men,” Gaborn objected.

“You should never have Chosen that one,” Binnesman said, “no matter how great you thought the need. I warned you against it. But once you Chose him, you should not have sought to turn your powers against him. Your deed is the very root and essence of defilement.”

“Is there no hope?” Gaborn asked. “Is that what you are telling me?”

Binnesman turned, starlight reflecting from his eyes, and planted his staff in the ground. He was huffing after the climb.

“Of course there’s hope,” he said firmly. “There is always hope. A man who lacks hope is a man who lacks wisdom.”

“But I’ve done great wrongs,” Gaborn said. “I never should have relied on my own strength. I see that now.”

“Hmmmm...” Binnesman said, with an appraising look. “You see it, but have you truly learned? Do you really trust the Earth to protect you, or do you think like a Runelord—do you trust in your endowments?”

Gaborn answered slowly. “I didn’t take endowments for myself, but to better serve my people. I cannot bemoan the choice now. My endowments might still serve mankind.”

“Humph,” Binnesman said. He led them to a small clearing and scrutinized Gaborn from beneath his bushy brows. His eyes seemed to Gaborn to be cold pebbles.