David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

To Raj Ahten’s wonder, Paladane’s men began fighting so effectively that the reavers at the gates hesitated, withdrew in confusion, unwilling to withstand the slaughter.

Paladane’s men closed ranks. Along the walls, men leapt down atop the mound of carcasses and raced forward, forced reavers back to the causeway.

Everywhere in the castle, commoners staggered down the wall-walks, heading for the bailey, trying to obey Gaborn’s command to flee the castle. Others threw themselves over the walls into the lake.

Carris was enormous, with nearly four hundred thousand troops on the walls and as many commoners within the city proper. Now these people spilled out into every narrow street, fleeing the quakes.

“Hold!” Raj Ahten shouted to them. “Stand fast, I say!” His Voice was so powerful and seductive that his words slipped like a dagger into the subconscious minds of Paladane’s men, and soon most of them began to hold their positions.

I will not be ill-used, Raj Ahten told himself..

He smiled grimly and shouted across the distance, with a voice so powerful that even Gaborn could not fail to hear. “We are enemies still, son of Orden!”

Roland thought he heard dogs barking and snarling. He found himself in a tree carved of stone, perched high above the ground.

In a daze, he struggled to raise his head, saw huge reavers racing through the branches above, teeth flashing. An overwhelming fatigue smote him. He fell back. The tree shuddered below, and he heard its great bole snap under so much weight.

“The walls will come down! The walls are coming down!” someone shouted distantly. Raj Ahten’s Voice rolled through the woods, “To me! To me!”

Men screamed and died, and nearby Roland heard a woman shouting for help. He glanced down from his perch of stone and saw Baron Poll’s familiar face, leering up at him.

“Help,” Roland called weakly.

The Baron laughed. “Help? You want the help of a dead man? What would you give me?”

“Please...” Roland said.

“Not until you call me ‘sirrah,“ ‘ Baron Poll said smugly.

“Please, sirrah,” Roland begged.

“Now if only your son would say that word,” Baron Poll laughed. He turned his horse and rode away through a misty field.

Distantly he heard men screaming, heard the rattling breath of reavers. He felt in great pain, almost past caring.

Light flashed overhead, flames dancing in a burning tower.

Roland opened his eyes, lay for a long time looking at his arm. It was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Men lay dead all around; gore splattered the merlons above him. The white plaster walls of Carris were turning crimson.

Gloom filled the sky. Feathery flakes of snow fell like ashes. No, he realized, they were ashes: Roland closed his eyes, for it pained him to look. It was nearly dark. Roland judged that he’d been unconscious for an hour or more.

He heard a baby crying, lolled his head to the side. Down in the courtyard just below, a young woman in a gray-blue robe had come out of the back of the manor, and she clucked softly as she tried to shush her fretting child.

Painfully, Roland gathered his strength and rolled to his stomach. Blood began to leak from his bandaged arm. He climbed to his knees and held his arm for along moment, stanching his wound, trying to make sense of what he saw.

No one was left alive on the south wall with him. Bodies by the thousands lay strewn along it, nearly all human, though a few reavers lay in the mix. Ashes and soot fell from the cold air.

The castle walls were swaying, stones grinding against stone. “I Choose you. I Choose you for the Earth,” a voice whispered in Roland’s mind. “Flee!”

Roland heard the call distantly, through the tattered remnants of a nightmare of pain. He struggled to comprehend it.

He glanced around. Everyone’s killed, he thought. But no, he decided, the wall had been abandoned. The walls were bucking, plaster and stones falling from them.

He looked into the castle. The front gates were down, along with both gate towers. Reavers had broken into the castle. The men of Carris struggled for their lives down in the bailey; clambered up a mound of dead reavers in an effort to retake the causeway. A few frowth giants fought ferociously at their backs.

The plain before Carris was black with bodies—gray reavers by the dull thousands. At the foot of Bone Hill, a human host fought. Hundreds of knights whirled their mounts in a slow-moving pinwheel, lances bristling.

Lances shattered as men met reavers. Horses stumbled with their knights. Blades and glory hammers rose and fell in deadly arcs.

In the midst of the pinwheel, a flag blew in the stiff wind: the green man of Mystarria, King Orden’s standard.

At the center of a tiny knot, Roland saw the Earth King himself, Gaborn Val Orden, staggering toward the fell mage at Bone Hill. Guards circled him in a knot, and Roland’s heart swelled to imagine that his son would be among them. Ah, if only Averan were here to see this!

It’s true, Roland realized. The voice I heard in the dream...the Earth King has Chosen me.

Why? Roland wondered. Why me? Surely I am not worthy. I am a murderer: A worthless commoner. I am no warrior.

Roland was not given to fantasies. Even if he had been a fantasist, he’d not have imagined the Earth King Choosing him.

Suddenly he found tears streaming down his cheeks, and Roland wondered how he might best repay the gift. “Thank you,” he whispered, unsure whether the Earth King could hear him.

In that moment a gray wind swept over the castle walls, sending gree swirling like ashes in a flume, bearing the odor of the reaver’s curse.

Roland felt weak from his wounds, had hardly made it to his knees. Now the curse wracked him with a lethargy that sapped all his will.

He succumbed atop the wall-walk, felt it swaying. He could not muster the energy to cry for help, to draw a breath, or even to blink.

Four miles from Castle Carris, Averan clung to Roland’s back as she rode, afraid that she might fall. One of the men from Indhopal had wrestled the green woman into his saddle, though she struggled against him, trying to climb down.

They’d outpaced the reavers that chased them, left the monsters far behind.

But something was wrong. Averan could not understand why Roland was here with the beautiful woman from Indhopal and her bodyguards: Nor could she understand why Roland was dressed in clothes that were different from those he’d worn yesterday, or why he rode such a grand horse.

With some embarrassment, she realized that this wasn’t Roland at all. It was more than the clothes or the horse, this man smelled wrong. His clothes smelled of desert sage and greasewood and sand, not the green grass of Mystarria.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I thought you were someone else, my friend Roland.”

The big man glanced back at her. She saw that this truly wasn’t Roland. This fellow had the same red hair, the same laughing blue eyes. But some of his hair had begun to turn gray.

“You know someone named Roland?” the fellow asked. “From the Blue Tower?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “He gave me a ride on his horse. He was riding with Baron Poll to Carris. He wanted to go north to see the Earth King, and his son—you. He was going to see you. Wasn’t he?”

The big man nodded. “Roland is my father’s name. You can call me Borenson.” He didn’t look happy to learn that his father was coming to see him.

“You don’t like your father?” Averan asked.

“My mother detested him,” Borenson answered “and since I look like him, in time she grew to detest me.”

“I like Roland,” Averan offered. “He’s going to petition Paladane so that I can be his daughter.”