David Farland - The Sum of All Men

The old wizard smiled, leaned back in his saddle, as if to rest. On the green across the field, Raj Ahten's three remaining flameweavers stood. Each began giving their bodies to fire, so that their clothes burst into flame and tendrils flared out from them, yellow, red, and blue.

“Why is it,” Binnesman asked, “that every forcible on earth must be yours?”

“They came from my mines,” Raj Ahten said, striding forward, his face alight with seductive beauty. “My slaves dug the ore.”

“As I recall, the Sultan of Hadwar owned those mines—until you slit his throat. As for the slaves, they were someone's sons and daughters before you took them. Even the blood metal you cannot claim—for it is only the crusty remains of your ancestors who died long ago in a great slaughter.”

“Yet I claim it as mine,” Raj Ahten said softly, “and no man can stop me.”

“By what right?” Binnesman called. “You claim the whole earth as your own, but you are a mere mortal. Must death force you to release all that you claim before you recognize that you own nothing? You own nothing. The earth nourishes you from day to day, from breath to breath! You are chained to it, as surely as your slaves are chained to the walls of your mines. Acknowledge its power over you!”

Binnesman sighed, glanced up to Orden on the castle wall. “What of it, King Orden? You strike me as a fair-minded man. Will you give these forcibles to Raj Ahten, so that you two may finish with this squabbling?” Binnesman's eyes smiled, as if he expected Orden to laugh.

“No,” Orden said. “I'll not give them. If he wants them, he must come against me!”

Binnesman clucked his tongue as if he were an old woman, scolding a child. “You hear, Raj Ahten? Here is a man who dares defy you. And I suspect he will win...”

“He has no chance against me,” Raj Ahten said with dignity, though his face seemed livid with rage. “You lie.”

“Do I?” Binnesman asked. “For what purpose do I lie?”

“You seek to twist us all, to do your own bidding.”

“Is that how you see it? Life is precious—yours, mine, your enemy's. I cherish life. Am I 'twisting' you to save your miserable life?”

Raj Ahten did not answer, but only studied Binnesman with subdued rage.

Binnesman said, “I've come before you twice now. I warn you one last time, Raj Ahten: Give up this foolhardy war!”

“You had best move from my way,” Raj Ahten said. “You can't stop me.”

Binnesman smiled. “No, I can't stop you. But others can stop you. The new King of the Earth has been ordained. You cannot prevail against him.

“I see hope for House Orden, but none for you. I did not come here to beg you yet again to join my cause,” Binnesman said. “I know you will not join me.”

“But hear me well: I speak now in the name of the Power I serve: Raj Ahten, the Earth that gave you birth, the Earth that nurtured you as a mother and father, now rejects you! No longer will it nourish or protect you.”

“I curse the ground you walk upon, that it will no longer give you sustenance! The stones of the earth shall trouble you. Accursed be your flesh, your bone, your sinew. Let your arms be weakened. Cursed be the fruit of your loins, that you leave no issue. Cursed be those who band themselves with you, that they too shall suffer your lot!”

“I warn you: Leave this land!”

The Earth Warden spoke with such force that Orden expected some sign—the ground to sway and tremble or swallow Raj Ahten, or for stones to drop from the sky.

But the downs looked the same as ever, the sun still shone bright.

Earth does not kill, Orden knew. It does not destroy. And Orden could see that Binnesman had no wylde to back him, no power to effect some astonishing curse.

Or perhaps, in time, the effects of the wizard's curse would be seen. Such curses were never given lightly, and old wives' tales warned that they were the most potent form of magic. If that were true, Orden almost pitied Raj Ahten.

Yet, for the moment, nothing happened. Orden shouted a warning. “Binnesman, leave this battle. You can do nothing more.”

Binnesman turned up and looked at Orden, and there was such a look of anger there in the wizard's eyes that Orden stepped back a pace.

As if Binnesman, too, suddenly recognized the danger, he turned his mount west, toward the Dunnwood, and fled.

Castle Groverman lay on a shallow, sandy mound on Mangon's Heath, just where Wind River made a slow turn. It was not the stoutest castle in Heredon, nor the largest, but as Iome rode across the plains that morning, it seemed the most beautiful, with its sprawling grounds, its palatial towers, and its vast gates. The morning sun shone golden on the heather and on the yellow sandstone of the castle, so it gleamed like something molten.

Iome, her father, Gaborn, and the three Days swept over the heather, racing past herds of half-wild horses and cattle that startled away each time they crossed a line of hills.

Iome knew this place only from maps and tomes and conversations. Groverman came to her father's castle for the Council of Lords each fall and winter, but she'd never seen his home. For centuries the lords of Groverman had governed this land, supplying Heredon with force horses and beef. Iome's father did not keep large stables in his own castle—not like the extensive stables at Groverman. Here, on the green banks of Wind River, the horses grew fat and frolicked, until the lord's horsemen brought them to the King's stables and introduced the foals to the herd leaders.

The herd leaders were spirited. A herd leader, once given endowments of strength and metabolism, would dominate any wild horse. The wild foals were used as Dedicates, for these horses stood most in awe of the herd stallions, and could therefore best be counted on to provide attributes.

Thus Castle Groverman had grown to be an important fortress, for this was the Dedicates' Keep for the horses that supplied Sylvarresta's messengers and soldiers.

But this late in the fall, it was also a busy center for commerce. The local vassals and villeins herded cattle in for the fall slaughter. Tomorrow was the first day of Hostenfest, a time of celebration before the last of the fall labors. A week from today, when the feasting ended, the fatted beeves would be driven all across Heredon for slaughter on Tolfest, in the twenty-fifth day of the Month of Leaves, before the winter snows set in.

With the beef came horsemen, driving in the summer's foals. The fields around Castle Groverman had thus become a maze of stockyards and tents.

On seeing it, Iome's heart sank.

She'd been outraged to learn that Duke Groverman refused aid to Longmont. It had seemed a small and evil gesture, not in keeping with the graciousness and courage expected from the lords of Heredon.

But now Iome saw that Groverman might not go to Longmont, with good reason. Outside the castle, people and animals crowded the grounds—the horsemen and cattlemen, merchants for the festival, refugees from Longmont, plus some refugees who'd left their own unprotected villages.

The refugees from Longmont broke tome's heart. They huddled on the banks of Wind River—women, babes, men. For most of them, only blankets slung over poles would shelter them from the snows this winter. Groverman had generously allowed the refugees to camp near the castle walls, protected from the winds that swept these plains.

Still, it looked as if a town of rags had sprung up by the river, a town inhabited by ragged people. Silver-haired men puttered aimlessly, as if only waiting for winter so they could freeze. Women wrapped their babes in thick woolen blankets and kept them tucked under their arms, having nothing better than their bodies and cloth to warm the children.