David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

He stood a moment wondering what had happened. Ah, Earth, he said in his thoughts, addressing the Power he served. Could you not at least send a stag from the forest?

But no voice answered. None ever did.

Moments later, Binnesman and the Days came trotting up the road. The Days bore the reins of Gaborn’s dun colored mare.

“The hares are skittish today, it seems,” Binnesman said. He smiled slyly, as if pleased. The morning light accentuated the creases in the wizard’s face and brought out the russet hues of his robes. A week ago, Binnesman had given part of his life to summon a wylde, a creature strong in the earth powers. Before that, Binnesman’s hair had been brown, and his robes the green of a leaf in summer. Now his robes had changed color, and the fellow seemed to Gaborn to have aged decades in the past few days. Worse yet, the wylde he’d sought to summon had vanished.

“Aye, the hares are skittish,” Gaborn answered suspiciously. As an Earth Warden, Binnesman sought to serve the Earth, and claimed that he cared as much about mice and snakes as he did mankind. Gaborn wondered if the wizard had warned the hares off with some spell, or perhaps something as simple as a wave of the hand. “More than a little skittish, I’d say.” Gaborn swung up into his saddle but kept his bow, strung and his arrow nocked. They were close to the city, but he imagined that he still might see a stag by the roadside, some enormous old grandfather with a rack as big as his arm span, come down out of the mountains to eat one sweet apple from a farmer’s orchard before it died.

Gaborn glanced over at Binnesman. He still wore that secretive grin, yet Gaborn could not tell if it was a sly expression or a worried smile.

“You’re happy that I missed the hares?” Gaborn ventured.

“You’d not have been pleased with them, milord,” Binnesman said. “My father was an innkeeper. He used to say, ‘A man with fickle innards is never pleased.’ ”

“Meaning?” Gaborn said.

“Choose your quarry, milord,” Binnesman answered. “If you are hunting reavers, it’s silly to go chasing after hares. You wouldn’t allow your hounds to do it. Neither should you.”

“Ah,” Gaborn said, wondering if the wizard meant more than he said.

“Besides, the reavers proved a harder match than any of us had bargained for.”

Bitterly, Gaborn realized that Binnesman was right. Despite the powers of Gaborn and Binnesman combined, forty-one strong knights had died fighting the reavers. Besides Gaborn, Binnesman, and Sir Borenson, only nine others had made it from the ruins alive. It had been a bitter struggle. The nine were back with Borenson now, dragging the reaver mage’s head to town, opting to stay with their trophy.

Gaborn changed the subject. “I didn’t know that wizards had fathers,” he teased. “Tell me more about yours.”

“It was long ago,” Binnesman said. “I don’t remember him much. In fact, I think I just told you everything I recall about him.”

“Certainly you recall more than that,” Gaborn chided. “The more I know you, the more I know not to believe anything you say.” He didn’t know how many hundred years the wizard had lived, but he suspected that Binnesman must have a story or two.

“You are right, milord,” Binnesman said. “I don’t have a father. Like all Earth Wardens, I was born of the Earth. I was but a creature that someone sculpted of mud, till I formed this flesh for myself of my own will.” Binnesman arched an eyebrow mysteriously.

Gaborn glanced at the wizard, and for just a moment, he had the nagging suspicion that Binnesman spoke more truly than he pretended.

Then the moment passed and Gaborn laughed. “You are such a liar! I swear, you invented the art!”

Binnesman laughed in turn. “No, tis a fine skill, but I did not invent it. I merely seek to perfect it.”

At that moment, a force horse came thundering along the road from the south. It was a fast horse, with three or four endowments of metabolism, a white charger that flashed in the sunlight as it moved between shadows and trees. Its rider wore the livery of Mystarria, the image of the green man upon a blue field.

Gaborn reined in his horse and waited. He’d felt danger. Now he feared the courier’s news.

The messenger rode up swiftly, never slowing his mount, until Gaborn raised a hand and called out. Only then did the messenger recognize Gaborn, for the King wore nothing now but a simple gray traveling robe, stained from the road.

“Your Highness!” the messenger cried.

He reached for a leather pouch at his waist, then proffered a small scroll, its red wax seal bearing the mark of Paladane’s signet ring.

Gaborn opened the scroll. As he read, his heart sank and his breathing quickened.

“Raj Ahten has moved south into Mystarria,” he told Binnesman. “He’s toppled castles at Gorlane, Aravelle, and Tal Rimmon. This was near dawn two days ago.

“Paladane says that his men and some Knights Equitable made Raj Ahten pay. Their archers ambushed Raj Ahten’s troops. You can walk from the village of Boarshead to Gower’s Ridge on the backs of the dead.”

Gaborn dared not relate more of the horrific news. Paladane’s observations were extremely detailed and precise, noting the exact type and number of enemy casualties 36,909 men, the vast majority of whom were common troops out of Fleeds. He also noted the number of arrows spent (702,000), defenders slain (1,274), wounded (4,951), and horses slain (3,207) versus the amount of armor, gold, and horses captured. He then gave precise notes on the movements of enemy troops along with the current dispositions of his own men. Raj Ahten’s reinforcements were converging on Carris from Castles Crayden, Fells, and Tal Dur. Paladane was reinforcing Carris, convinced that Raj Ahten would seek to capture the mighty fortress rather than casually destroy it.

Gaborn read the news and shook his head in dismay. Raj Ahten had engaged in savagery. Paladane had paid him in kind. The news revolted Gaborn.

Paladane’s last words were: “Obviously, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal hopes to draw you into this conflict. He has decimated your northern border, so that you cannot come south with the hope of bringing in fresh troops of any consequence. I beg you to remain in Heredon. Let the Huntsman bring this dog to bay.”

Gaborn rolled the scroll back up, tucked it into the pocket of his robe.

This is maddening, Gaborn thought, to sit here nearly a thousand miles away and learn when my people died days after it happened.

He could do little to stop Raj Ahten—. But he could get news faster....

He glanced at the messenger, a young lad with curly brown hair and clear blue eyes. Gaborn had seen him at court on many occasions. He looked the young man in the eyes and used the Earth Sight to stare beyond his eyes, into his heart. The courier was proud, proud of his position and his riding skill. He was daring, almost eager to risk his life in his lord’s service. A dozen wenches at inns across Mystarria thought they loved him, for he tipped well and kissed even better, but the fellow was torn between his love of two women who had vastly different personalities.

Gaborn did not think particularly well of the young man, but saw no reason not to Choose him. Gaborn needed servants like this, needed messengers he could count on. Gaborn raised his left hand, stared the lad in the eyes, and whispered, “I Choose you for the Earth. Rest now, but head back for Carris today. I currently have one Chosen messenger there. If I sense danger to you both, I’ll know that Raj Ahten plans to attack the city. If ever you hear my Voice warning you in your mind, obey me.”

“I dare not rest, Your Highness,” the messenger said, “while Carris is in danger.”