David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“Is that the worst that you can do?” Fallion asked. He stabbed himself in the hand, drew the dagger across his palm, opening a shallow wound. He raised his palm in the air so that the blood flowed freely. “I don’t fear pain,” he said, then added calmly, “Is that why you fear me?”

Asgaroth trembled with rage. He sat upon his destrier, clenching the reins, and Fallion looked over to his mother’s soldiers on the wall, many of whom were staring at him in open amazement. Fallion curled his bleeding hand into a fist, and drew it down quickly, as if striking a blow, and against all of the rules of parlay, he shouted, “Fire.”

Fallion had never ordered a soldier to kill. But in an instant, every archer upon the wall let fly an arrow, and the marksmen fired their ballistae. It was as if they had been aching for permission.

Arrows swept down in a dark hail. A dozen cruel Runelords were slaughtered in an instant, and many others took wounds. Horses screamed and fell, bloody rents in their flesh. Fallion saw dozens of men, arrows lodged in them, turn their horses and beat a hasty retreat.

But Asgaroth went unharmed. Before the command to fire had even left Fallion’s mouth, the shadow man reached over with his left hand and grabbed the fat old Olmarg, lifting him easily from the saddle, and threw him upon his pommel, using the warlord as a human shield.

It happened so swiftly, Fallion barely saw the movement, attesting that Asgaroth had many endowments of both metabolism and brawn.

Then, as Olmarg filled up with so many arrows that he looked like a practice target, Asgaroth raised his left hand and a powerful wind screamed from it. In seconds every arrow that flew toward him veered from its path.

Fallion could hear the twang of bows, could see the dark missiles blurring in their speed, but Asgaroth tossed Olmarg to the ground and then sat calmly upon his horse, taking no hurt.

Many an arrow landed nearby, and soon Asgaroth’s victims, impaled upon their stakes, had each been struck a dozen times, putting an end to their torment.

And though the archers kept firing, Asgaroth gazed hard at Fallion and shouted, “If viciousness be art, then of you I shall make a masterpiece.”

Asgaroth calmly turned his blood mount and let it prance away, its hooves rising and falling rhythmically as if in dance, until it rode off into the darkness. The shadows seemed to coalesce around the rider, and in moments he became one with the night.

He’s coming back, Fallion thought. In fact, his men are probably surrounding the castle now as they wait for reinforcements.

Fallion looked up at his mother. Her jaw was clenched in rage, and she looked at the blood dripping from his palm. He thought that she would scold him, but she merely put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, pride catching in her voice, “Well done. Well done.”

Iome strode from the castle wall, hurrying down the steps. At her back, she heard an old veteran soldier telling Fallion, “You ever need to go into battle, milord, I’d be proud to ride at your side.”

It was a sentiment that Iome suspected more than one man shared at this moment.

A healer in a dark blue robe, smelling of dried herbs, brushed past Iome on his way to bandage Fallion.

Sir Borenson met Iome in the courtyard, rushing up as if to ask orders.

Iome said swiftly, “How soon can we leave?”

“I need only to get the children,” he said.

Iome had not packed a bag, but it was not a hundred miles to the Courts of Tide, and the heavy cloak and boots that she wore would suffice until then. She carried a sword beneath her robe, and a pair of dueling daggers strapped to her boots, so she would not lack for weapons.

“Get your family then,” Iome said, “and I will meet you in the tunnels.”

Borenson turned, racing toward his quarters, a small home beside the barracks, and Iome hesitated.

After what she had just seen, she felt certain that Fallion was almost ready to receive endowments.

It isn’t age that qualifies a man to lead, she thought. It’s an amalgam of traits-honor, decency, courage, wisdom, decisiveness, resolve. And Fallion has shown me all of those tonight.

But dare I take his childhood from him?

Not yet, she told herself. But soon. Too soon, it must come.

Which meant that she needed to take only one thing on this trip: Fallion’s legacy.

She raced up to her treasury above the throne room, where she kept hundreds of forcibles under lock and key.

Sir Borenson was loath to tell Myrrima that they would have to leave Castle Coorm. It is no small feat to uproot a family and take your children to a far land. Even under the best of circumstances it can be hard, and to do it under this pall of danger…what would she say?

Borenson’s mother had been a shrewish woman, one who drove her husband half mad. Privately, Borenson held the belief that nagging was more than a privilege for a woman, it was her right and her duty. She was, after all, the one who ruled the house when the man was out.

Sheepishly, he had to admit that his wife ruled the house even when he was home.

Myrrima had become entrenched at Coorm. She was a favorite among the ladies and spent hours a day among her friends-knitting, washing, cooking, and gossiping. Her friendships were many and deep, and it would be easier for Borenson to cut off his own arm than to cut her off from her friends.

So when he went to their little house outside the main keep, he was surprised to find the children already packing.

“We’re leaving, Dad!” little five-year-old Draken shouted when he came in. The boy displayed a pillowcase full of clothing as proof. The other children were bustling in their room.

Borenson went upstairs and found his wife, standing there, peering out the window. He came up behind and put his arm around her.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Gaborn told me. It’s time that we take care of his boys. It was his final wish…”

Myrrima peered out the window. Down in the streets, a group of peasants had gathered outside the Dedicates’ Keep. The facilitators were gathering those who would grant endowments to Mystarria’s warriors-attributes of brawn, grace, metabolism, and stamina.

The peasants were excited. To give an endowment was dangerous. Many a man who gave brawn suddenly found that his heart was too weak to keep beating. Those who gave stamina could take sick and die.

Yet this was their chance to be heroes, to give something of themselves for the good of the kingdom. To give an endowment made them instant heroes in the eyes of family and friends, and it seemed that the darker times became, the more willing folks were to give of themselves.

Myrrima felt inside herself. She had not taken an endowment in nine years. In that time, several of the Dedicates who had granted her attributes had died, and with their passing, Myrrima had lost the blessing of their attributes. Her stamina was lower than it should be, as was her brawn and grace. She still had her endowments of scent, hearing, sight, and metabolism. But in many ways she was diminished.

In the parlance of the day, she was becoming a “warrior of unfortunate proportion,” one who no longer had the right balance of brawn and grace, stamina and metabolism, to be called a true “force warrior.”

Against a more-balanced opponent, she was at an extreme disadvantage.

She caught sight of a light in the uppermost tower of the Dedicates’ Keep. A facilitator was up there singing, his voice piping in birdlike incantations. He waved a forcible in the air, and it left a glowing trail. He peered at the white light, which hung like a luminous worm in the air, and judged its heft and depth.