David Farland - Wizardborn

Huge blade-bearers joined ranks in a pentagon nearly a mile to each side, while smaller reavers made up a star at its center. Within each arm of the star, a few scarlet sorceresses gathered in an elongated triangle. A fell mage and her escorts took up the center of the star. Averan recognized the formation, dredged it from Cunning Eater’s few memories.

The reavers called it the Form of War.

It was not a formation designed for speedy flight. It was designed for a military charge.

She clung to the side panels of the wagon, heart pounding in terror, thinking furiously. Her stomach knotted. She fought to calm herself.

The driver let his wagon slow. The reavers had passed them now, were charging away.

Averan had flown over these plains before, knew every city, every hamlet. To the east lay only hills for a bit, and beyond that the Donnestgree River twisted lazily over the plain. Villages and farms were everywhere along its banks. But the only city of import was Feldonshire, forty-five miles east.

Feldonshire was a sprawling tangle of cottages, shops, wheat mills, farms, and breweries set in wooded hills. From the sky it didn’t look like a city quite so much as a cluster of villages strung together.

Averan could think of nothing there that the reavers might want—no fortresses, nothing.

Gaborn shouted as his charger raced up, paced beside the wain. “They’re attacking Feldonshire.”

Gaborn, riding hard, watched the reavers’ lines in confusion. He could feel danger rising rapidly in Feldonshire, some forty-five miles to his east. Many of the wounded from Carris had floated downriver in the night. Now they were bivouacked in the city. His Earth senses screamed a warning to his Chosen, “Flee! Flee!”

The horde stampeded in a strange new formation over the golden plains. Dust and chaff thrown in the air during their passage rose for thousands of feet. The morning sun arching through the clouds cast a strange, yellowish pall.

But why Feldonshire?

“Water!” Averan said. “They’re going to water!”

“In Feldonshire?” Gaborn asked.

“No, to the ponds at Stinkwater, just three miles past the city!” Averan said. “I’ve seen them from the air—like green gems. The water has sulfur in it!”

Gaborn knew of the ponds. The hot mineral water that flowed up from the ground was a curse to those who lived nearby. No one farmed for miles around, and on cold winter mornings, vapors from ponds sometimes blew all the way to Feldonshire.

Could it be? he wondered. “But Feldonshire is forty-five miles from here!”

Averan nodded vigorously. “We know it’s forty-five miles, but maybe the reavers don’t. To them the water is just a smell in the air.”

Could a reaver scent water that far away? he wondered. Wolves could smell blood at four miles, and the Stinkwater probably had an odor stronger than blood.

So the reavers charged east, straight into the wind. A line of oak-covered hills rose up. The reavers would bull through the woods, blazing a trail of devastation a mile wide.

Gaborn licked his lips. Some reavers had already fallen out of the ranks, too weak to keep up the grueling pace. Several hundred lancers chased after them.

Forty-five miles. How long could they run before they exhausted themselves?

One way or another, he was determined to kill the Waymaker. He’d have to move quickly to head them off.

“Skalbairn,” Gaborn shouted. “Send a dozen of your fastest riders to Feldonshire. If it’s water that the reavers want, make sure that they don’t get it.”

“Milord?” Skalbairn asked.

“Poison the ponds,” Gaborn ordered.

“Poison them?” Binnesman demanded.

Gaborn frowned. He was the Earth King, and the Earth was allied with Water. For generations, his forefathers had allied with Water.

“It’s not a choice I make lightly,” Gaborn said.

“What should we use?” Skalbairn asked.

“Anything at hand,” Gaborn said. “Go to the woodcarvers’ guild. Ask Guildmaster Wallachs for help.”

“Aye,” Skalbairn said. He called out to some men, sent them racing off for Feldonshire. Baron Waggit rode with them.

But poisoning the water wouldn’t be enough. The reavers would head through Feldonshire.

Gaborn sensed danger to thousands of refugees. He could imagine what the banks of the river must look like, with the camps of the wounded there.

He would need to turn the horde if he could, block their path—or at least delay them long enough to save his people.

At the rate the horde was running, they’d reach Feldonshire in two hours. Even his fastest couriers would have to ride up the road nine miles to Ballyton, then cut southeast. Their trail would be sixty miles. Even on force horses, that would take the better part of an hour.

That would leave the people of Feldonshire only an hour to evacuate.

“You men,” Gaborn called to another dozen Runelords. “Go get the philia from some reavers’ bungholes. We’ll set another fire against them! Perhaps we can scare them off again. Does anyone here know Feldonshire?”

A young lord answered from the ranks. “Your Highness, my family is from there. I grew up in Darkwald.”

Darkwald was a forest of black walnut north of Feldonshire. The local craftsmen used the wood for carving tables, placards, wooden howls, fine chests and wardrobes, decorative mantels, and ornate doors. Many of Mystarria’s finest treasures had been carved in Feldonshire.

“Then you’ll know where to start the fire?”

The lord glanced at the reavers’ trail. “Shrewsvale.”

“You’d burn a village?” Gaborn asked.

“I don’t want to—I have a sister who lives there. But that’s where the reavers are heading, if I have my guess.”

Another lord spoke. “He’s right. The hills rise up on either side, and Shrewsvale is in the midst of the pass. There’d be no better place to stop the reavers.”

Gaborn had heard that there was a good inn at the top of the pass.

He jutted his chin at Langley. “Take a thousand lancers on slow mounts, along with the Frowth, and follow the reavers. Cut down any that fall behind, but don’t engage the main force. Be sure to note the position of any that might be the Waymaker.

“I’ll take the thousand fastest men to Shrewsvale.”

The slow dawn rose above Kartish, painting a pink haze above the gray and blasted lands. Raj Ahten prepared for his attack on the reaver fortress. No birds sang. No cattle walked the fields. Not even a lonely wind sighed.

Shadows puddled in the hollows, while sunlight gilded the hilltops. Overhead, a single flameweaver rode the spy balloon, along with two common troops. The graak-shaped balloon hovered in the still air like a seagull.

Raj Ahten stood on a ridge, glaring down. Below him, the reaver fortress was a monstrosity. A vile brown haze circled the place, swirling in a vast circle as if it were a slow tornado. Through wisps of fog he could see hundreds of thousands of dead men lying on the battlefield. Pusnabish had led his men to war, but the fell mage’s curses were so strong that no commoner could survive that swirling mist. Men and mounts with as many as three endowments of stamina stepped into the nebula and could only stagger a dozen yards before collapsing.

Worse than that, Raj Ahten’s sorcerers warned him that the mist was bound to its course. Even a driving wind at sunset had not diminished it. Instead, the haze circled maddeningly, as if it occupied its own space and time.

Raj Ahten would not be able to send commoners into this fray. They would only avail if the reavers sought to escape.