David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

“How soon?” Gaborn asked. “When will it come?” Binnesman went to a small table and retrieved a large tome, an illuminated manuscript that depicted various creatures of the Earth. He flipped through his bestiary, to the pages that dealt with creatures of the netherworld. The notations for a Darkling Glory were scant, and lacked even a crude drawing. Obviously, even among the wise, this beast was the stuff of mere legend. “It is a creature of air and darkness,” Binnesman said: “It will fly to you, and most likely it will wait to attack until night. I think it is too far away to reach us today. But tomorrow night, or the night after, it will surely come.”

“What should I do?” Gaborn asked.

Binnesman didn’t answer, merely frowned as he read the entry on Darkling Glories. Iome realized that he had no answer.

“That fool, Raj Ahten,” the wizard muttered, “to loose, such a monster now.”

Binnesman knelt by his crystals, nudged one a hairsbreadth, and shifted his view so that he could better see Raj Ahten’s army.

For a long moment he stared, then he spoke to Gaborn. “I don’t see Raj Ahten himself. Where could he be?”

Gaborn studied the image, too. “It’s dark there. Maybe he’s in the shadows, near the rear.”

“No,” Binnesman said. “He would be at the forefront, to greet his new ambassador. He’s gone. He’s split off from his main army for some reason.”

“But why?” Gaborn asked. “Can you find him?”

Binnesman shook his head and frowned. “I doubt it. An army, a volcano—these are easy to spot. But one man, riding in the night? It could take me days, and I’m at the end of my strength.”

Binnesman turned away from the Seer’s Stone, and the image faded altogether, though the glowing crystals still provided some small light for the room. In that light, the wizard looked ill-used. Only a week before, his robes had been green, the color of leaves in high summer. But then he’d tried to summon a wylde, a creature of the Earth that would strengthen his powers. Unfortunately, the wylde had been lost, and Binnesman was now weary and weakened.

“I have been studying the volcanoes,” he said glumly, “trying to figure out the reavers’ plan of attack.

“I must admit that it makes little sense to me. The reavers are surfacing in places that are far apart from one another, and most of them are far from any human habitation.

“But one thing I have noticed. They arise in places where there is already an old volcano nearby, or regions filled with hot springs or geysers.”

“Which means?” Gaborn asked.

“There is a realm of fire at the heart of the earth,”

Binnesman said, “as you yourself saw when we reached the Idymean Sea.

“I think,” Binnesman continued, “that in some places, this realm of fire comes closer to the earth’s surface than in others. That is where hot springs form, and volcanoes arise. Now I wonder if perhaps the heat is driving the reavers to the surface.”

Gaborn changed the subject. “It is of more immediate concern that Raj Ahten is preparing to attack Mystarria in earnest. I’ll need to convene a council with my war leaders.”

“War with Raj Ahten?” Binnesman asked. “Are you sure that is wise, with so many reavers surfacing?”

Gaborn sighed heavily. “No. But if I do not at least give some sign that I will fight him, Raj Ahten may do more damage. I can only hope that once he learns of the danger in his own lands he will retreat to Indhopal and look after his own defense. I may even be able to negotiate a truce.”

The wizard studied Gaborn thoughtfully. “You may try to reclaim Raj Ahten if you want,” Binnesman said. “But I don’t know if even you can save him. Remember that I cursed him a week ago. Such curses take time to reach their full effect, but I suspect that now you cannot help him.”

“For the sake of my people, I must try,” Gaborn said.

Binnesman peered up at him from beneath a bushy brow. “And for the sake of your people, I must warn you: Raj Ahten is not likely to take counsel from an enemy. You will be placing yourself in grave danger when you go before him. It may be that he is even trying to draw you into battle, for he knows that he cannot attack you here, so close to the Dunnwood, where the wights protect you.”

“I know,” Gaborn said uneasily. “Will you come with me, then?”

“You know that I have no strength in war,” Binnesman said, “but I may follow in a day or two and offer what help I can. As for now, I must prepare to face the Darkling Glory, and I must meet it alone.”

“You?” Gaborn asked: “Alone, without a wylde? I can marshal fifty thousand knights to fight at your side.”

“And they would avail you nothing—merely get themselves killed,” Binnesman said.

“What weapons can you muster?” Gaborn asked.

“I...don’t know yet,” Binnesman said. “I’ll have to think of something. As for you, convene your war council. Your men know how to fight better than I do. At dawn, warn the people to flee Castle Sylvarresta. Certainly you feel the approaching danger. And now, I must rest.”

With no more preamble than that, he staggered toward a corner and lay down on some thick loam. The loam could not have been here long, Iome realized. The floor of the cellar was paved with a few flagstones thrown over hardened dirt. The wizard must have obtained that soil himself; Earth Wardens often administered healing soils to the sick. Iome wondered if the soil he slept in now had any special properties. He pulled handfuls of dirt close to him, and sprinkled some over him, and soon was sleeping peacefully.

Iome looked around. Now the room smelled only faintly of mildew and the clean scents of the wizard’s herbs. She could feel earth power here, that strange tingling sensation she got whenever Gaborn or the wizard drew near. Only here it was stronger. Unbidden, the blessing that she’d heard so often lately from Gaborn came to mind. “May the Earth hide you. May the Earth heal you. May the Earth make you its own.” This was a place surrounded by Earth.

“Let’s go,” Gaborn said.

Sir Borenson woke Myrrima with only a little shaking, and told her his news: Gaborn had requested her attendance at a council meeting.

“Are you certain that he wants me?” Myrrima asked, bewildered. She’d come after dinner to lie on the bed and had fallen asleep in her clothes. She sat up stiffly.

“I’m sure,” Borenson said.

“If he wants to know which autumn flowers will look best in the Great Hall,” Myrrima said, “I could counsel him till dawn. But I know nothing of war.”

“Gabon likes you,” Borenson said, somewhat at a loss himself. She had no skill at war, and Borenson suspected that Gaborn had invited Myrrima as a mere courtesy to him, so that he could spend more time with his new bride before leaving for Inkarra. But he dared not hurt his wife’s feelings by telling her so. “Did he not say when he first met you that he wanted you in his court? He respects your opinion.”

“But...I feel as if I’m an imposter.”

“I’m sure the King feels the same Way himself,” Borenson ventured. “A week ago, his greatest worry was whether or not to wear a feather in his cap when he came before Iome to ask for her hand. Now his father is dead, and he must plan a war. A week ago, I am sure that Iome worried most about what color thread to use in her embroidery, but she’ll be at the council, too.”

“It sounds as if he has invited everyone in the kingdom to his council!” Myrrima said in surprise.

“Not everyone. Chancellor Rodderman and Jureem will attend, as will Erin Connal, King Orwynne, High Marshal Skalbairn, and Lord Ingris of Lysle.”