Brotherhood of the Wolf

by David Farland

  4

  THE REAVERS

  “Skyrider Averan,” the beast master Brand said, “you are needed.”

  Averan turned to look at him in the predawn light, but not too quickly. In the huge shadowy loft of the graak’s aerie, she located Brand more by the sound of his footsteps than by sight. She was feeding some fledgling graaks and dared not look away from the reptiles. The graaks stood fourteen feet at the shoulder and could easily swallow a child like Averan whole. Though the graaks adored her and she’d been feeding them since they first clawed their way out of their leathery eggs, the graaks were likely to snap when hungry. Sometimes they would try to hook meat from her hand with a long wing claw. Averan did not want to lose an arm, as Brand had done so long ago.

  Skyrider, she thought. He called me “skyrider.” Not “beast handler.” At nine years of age, Averan was too big, too old, to be a skyrider. She hadn’t been allowed to fly in two years.

  Brand stood in the doorway to the aerie, the dim morning light casting a halo around him. The haunch of a young lamb was tied to his belt with a coil of rope, a lure for the graaks. He squinted and stroked his gray beard with his left hand.

  She wondered if he’d had too much new wine last night, had forgotten how old she was. “Are you—”

  “Sure? Yes.” Brand grunted, and his words were clipped, strained. She suddenly realized that he was shaking. “And we must hurry.” He turned then, and headed for the lofts.

  In the dim light, Averan and Brand climbed stairs chiseled in stone, into the upper aerie. The nests up here smelled fetid. The older graaks carried a scent not unlike that of a snake, and after centuries of habitation, that odor permeated the very rock of the aerie. Averan had learned to like the smell long ago, just as some people were said to enjoy the stench of horse sweat or the odor of dogs.

  The stairs opened into a wide chamber with a single narrow entrance chiseled in the east side of the hill. In the dim light, Averan could see that the chamber was empty. The graaks were out for their morning hunt. The cool autumn weather tended to make them restless and hungry.

  Averan followed Brand onto the landing. He stood for a moment, took the haunch of lamb from his belt, and made sure that the rope was tied snugly between a ligament and the bone at the joint. Then he stood swinging the huge clumsy lure. It took a full-grown man to swing the graak bait like that.

  “Leatherneck!” he called. “Leatherneck.”

  The graak was trained to respond to his name. The lamb would serve as a reward for the monster’s obedience, when he came.

  Averan searched the morning sky. The reptile was nowhere in sight. Leatherneck was old and large, a beast of great stamina, but not much speed. He was seldom used as a mount anymore. Over the past summer, he’d taken to hunting farther and farther afield.

  To the west, the Hest Mountains rose, their sheer peaks white from last night’s dusting of snow. On the mountainside below the aerie, Keep Haberd rose—five stone towers, its walls spanning both sides of the narrow pass that led into the mountains. People were running about within the castle walls, shouting. Some still bore torches. Their voices sounded dim and distant. Women and children were climbing onto wagons down on the green, seeking to escape.

  Only then did Averan realize that something was terribly wrong. “What’s happening?”

  Brand set down the haunch of lamb as if weary, measured her with a gaze. “A squire just rode in with news out of the hills of Morenshire. A volcano erupted in the Alcair Mountains last night, spewing ash. Reavers are approaching in its wake. The rider estimates that among the reavers are some eighty thousand blade-bearers, and another thousand lesser mages with a fell mage. A cloud of gree flies above them, blackening the skies. You must get the news to Duke Paldane at Carris.”

  Averan struggled to understand the implications of what Brand had just said. Morenshire was a region in the farthest west of Mystarria, bordering the juncture of the Hest and Alcair mountains. The citadel here, Keep Haberd, the nearest fortress, was old and stalwart. It served as a refuge for travelers in the mountains, and the soldiers here mostly kept the trails safe against robbers and reavers and other vermin. But the fortress would never hold out against a force like the one that Brand described. The reavers would overrun the walls in an hour, and they wouldn’t take prisoners.

  Duke Paldane was the King’s strategist. If anyone could defeat the reavers, Paldane could. But Paldane had his hands full. Raj Ahten’s men had taken or destroyed several castles on the borders, and lords and peasants alike were fleeing from the north.

  “Our lord thinks that the volcanic eruption has flushed the reavers from their lairs,” Brand went on. “It happened once that way, in my grandfather’s time. The volcano filled their burrows with lava and all the monsters fled in its wake. But this eruption will bring greater misery than that one did. The reavers have been breeding unchecked in those hills for far too long.” He rubbed his whiskers.

  “What about you?” Averan asked. “What will you do?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Brand said. “I’ll take them on with one hand, if I must.” He wiggled the stump of his right arm and laughed painfully at his own joke.

  But she could see the terror in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry about me. You just take old Leatherneck,” Brand said. “You’ll fly without benefit of saddle or food or water—to keep your weight down.”

  “What of Derwin?” Averan asked. “Shouldn’t he take the message to Duke Paldane?” Derwin was younger. At the age of five, he was the official skyrider for Keep Haberd.

  “I sent him off late last night on another errand,” Brand answered, gazing off to the south, searching for his beast. Then he muttered bitterly, “Our fool of a lord—sending skyriders to fetch letters to his mistress.”

  Averan already knew that. Years ago, she’d often carried letters and roses from her Lord Haberd to Lady Chetham in Arrowshire. In return, the lady would send notes of her own with lockets of her hair or a perfumed handkerchief. Lord Haberd apparently believed that he could hide his adulterous affair more easily if he used children for messengers rather than one of his older soldiers.

  The fertile plains to the east were shrouded in morning fog that turned a dim gold as the sun’s first rays touched upon it. Here and there, a green hill rose like an emerald island from the mist. Averan watched among the valleys for sign of the graak. Leatherneck would be there, searching for something slow and fat to eat.

  “How soon will the reavers be here?” Averan asked.

  “Two hours,” Brand answered. “At the most.”

  Hardly time to mount a defense. If Lord Haberd called for aid from the nearest fortress, it would take a day, even for knights riding force horses. She wondered if the men here could hold out so long.

  Brand put his hand to his mouth, called again. In the far distance, Averan saw a winged speck rise from the mist, tan-colored flesh aglow with the morning light—Leatherneck answering the summons.

  “Leatherneck is old,” Brand said. “You’ll have to stop and rest him frequently.”

  Averan nodded.

  “Fly above the woods to the north, then cut across the ridges to the Brace Mountains. It’s only two hundred and forty miles—not far. You can reach Carris by nightfall.”

  “Won’t resting slow me?” Averan asked. “Maybe I should just fly on through.”

  “This is safer,” Brand said. “No need to kill the beast in your hurry.”

  What could he mean? she wondered. Of course she had to hurry—and the death of her mount was nothing compared with the deaths of the men.

  She realized the truth then. Keep Haberd was isolated. Nothing that she did would make any difference. No help could arrive in time. Lord Haberd had probably already sent out messengers riding force horses. And the horses would make better time than she could. Her top speed was forty miles per hour, and flying north at this time of the year, she might have to battle headwinds. A fast horse, one with enough endowments of
metabolism and strength and stamina, could easily run eighty.

  “You’re not sending me out to carry a message,” Averan said. Her voice felt tight in her throat, and her heart was pounding.

  Brand glanced down at her, smiled fondly. “Of course not. I’m saving your life, child,” he admitted. “Take the message to Duke Paldane if you want. There’s always a chance that the horsemen won’t get through.”

  He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “But if you take my advice, I wouldn’t stop there. The palace at Carris is a death trap. If the reavers head that way, they could take it in a fortnight, and there’s no guarantee that Paldane will let you ride out on the beast you flew in on. Tell Paldane that you’ve been instructed to carry a message of warning farther north, to our lord’s second cousin at Montalfer. Paldane wouldn’t dare hold you back then.”

  Leatherneck was laboriously winging his way up from the foggy downs, carrying some shepherd’s ewe in his great maw. He flew eagerly, his small golden eyes gazing all around.

  The beast dropped to the landing, flapping his great wings so that the air whipped Averan’s hair. Leatherneck took a clumsy bounce, then gently laid the sheep’s carcass at Brand’s feet, as if he were some giant cat making a present to his master of a dead mouse. The graak stood panting, the folds of skin at his throat jiggling, as he sought to catch his breath.

  He leaned forward, nuzzled Brand’s chest.

  Brand smiled wistfully, reached out with his one good hand and patted the brute’s nose, pried a chunk of meat out from between Leatherneck’s saberlike teeth.

  “I’m going to miss you, old lizard,” Brand said. He tossed the haunch of lamb up into the air as high as he could. Leatherneck snagged it before it could touch ground.

  To Averan, Brand said, “I used to ride him as a lad, you know, forty years back—as did King Orden. This is a kingly mount you’ll ride.”

  Leatherneck was one of the oldest graaks in the aerie, not the one she’d have chosen to take. But he was well trained, and Brand had always held a special affection for the monster. “I’ll take good care of him,” Averan said.

  Brand made a fist, palm down, and the great reptile leaned forward, crouching so that Averan could mount. She ran a step and leapt onto its back. Like all skyriders, she had an endowment of stamina and of brawn. She had more strength and endurance than any commoner, and with her small size she was easily able to leap up and scramble over the monster’s back. Beyond those endowments, she had one of wit, and could therefore recount verbatim almost any message her lord ever wanted her to deliver. Such endowments set her apart from other children. She was only nine, but had learned much in that time.

  Averan settled in before the first horny plate on the beast’s neck. She scratched the graak’s leathery hide.

  “Never fall,” Brand said. It was the first rule a skyrider was taught as a child. It was also a farewell among the skyriders, an invocation to begin every journey.

  “I never shall,” Averan answered. He tossed her a small bag that clanked when she grabbed it, the sound of coins. His life’s savings, she imagined.

  She clasped her legs around the graak’s neck, felt his muscles tense and ripple as he awaited her command.

  She wished that she had more time to say goodbye to Brand. A part of her could not quite imagine that the reavers were really coming. The keep this morning looked the same as on any other autumn day. Here on the landing, high above the castle, maidenhair ferns and a few morning glories trailed up the rock, their purple flowers opening wide. The air was still and peaceful. The smell of cooking fires wafted up from the strongholds down below.

  Her mind rebelled at the thought of leaving. Normally she would feed her graak better before such a long flight. She wished now that she could allow Leatherneck to eat more, but the beast would hardly be able to bear her weight and that of a full belly.

  Averan’s throat felt dry. Bitter tears stung her eyes. She sniffed, and asked, one last time, “And what of you, Brand? What will you do? Will you leave the castle? Will you promise to hide—if not for yourself, for me?”

  “It would be death to run before the reavers,” Brand said.

  “They’d cut me in half like a sausage. And I fear that in my current condition, I’d make a poor bowman to man the walls.”

  “Hide for me, then,” Averan begged. Brand was everything to her—father, brother, friend. She had no family. Her father had died in a skirmish with reavers before she was born, and her mother perished from a fall when Averan was a toddler—a fall from a chair while lighting a lantern in the lord’s keep. Averan had seen her mother fall but had never quite accepted that someone could die so easily from a fall. She herself had dropped fifteen feet on more than one occasion when her reptile jarred her free on landing, but Averan had taken no harm from it.

  “I promise that I’ll hide, if hiding will do any good,” Brand said.

  She studied his eyes to try to see if he was lying. But Averan had always been terrible at seeing behind other people’s eyes. What other people really thought, what they meant, often seemed an unfathomable mystery.

  So she had to satisfy herself with the hope that Brand would hide, or run, or somehow escape the reavers.

  Brand had been staring at her, but suddenly his eyes focused on something behind her, and he caught his breath.

  She turned. On a far hill up the canyon, she suddenly saw them, the reavers scurrying forward on their six legs. Their leathery hides were pale gray in the morning, and at this distance, one could not make out how many runes were tattooed into their skins. One could see only their blades flashing in the sunlight, and the gleam of fiery staves. From a distance, the six-legged creatures looked only like some strange insects, scurrying from beneath a rock. But Averan knew that every one of those fell beasts was three times the height of a man.

  A dark cloud flew up behind, the gree swarming out in alarming numbers. The gree were smaller than bats, larger than June bugs. They flew out of caves sometimes. Averan had never seen so many that they darkened the sky.

  “Go, now!” Brand said. The reavers would not be here in two hours. At the speed they ran, they would be swarming the walls in five minutes.

  “Up,” Averan shouted.

  The graak turned and leapt off the cliff. Averan felt nauseous for a moment when the lizard fell. She looked down over his neck to the jumbled rocks hundreds of feet below.

  For a moment, she forgot about the reavers. Many a young skyrider had fallen to those rocks over the centuries. Averan had watched little Kylis fall last year, had heard the girl’s death scream. Now for one eternal moment Averan feared that Leatherneck would not be able to bear her weight, that she would carry them both to their deaths.

  Then the graak’s wings caught on the air, and she soared.

  She glanced back. Brand waved at her from the rocky perch of the graak’s aerie, as the morning sun glanced off his face. Then he walked manfully back inside the upper lofts.

  It looked to Averan as if the mountain swallowed him. She felt half-tempted to circle the city for a few moments, to see what the coming of the reavers might bring, but knew that she did not want such memories to haunt her in years to come.

  So with little nudges of her feet and spoken commands, Averan steered Leatherneck north, above the roiling fog that glistened like the waves of the sea. She wiped bitter tears from her eyes as Leatherneck bore her away.

  5

  BEAR STORIES

  “So then your son throws his javelin at the old tusker,” Baron Poll chortled at Roland, “and he thinks himself a marksman, aims right between the eyes. But that old boar must have had a skull as thick as the King’s fool’s head, for the javelin hits the skull and merely grazes the beast!”

  Baron Poll smiled at the memory, and Roland looked up the road. They were still half a day from Carris, riding slowly in the midafternoon, letting the mounts catch their breath.

  “So the old tusker is mad, and he lowers his snout and pa
ws the ground, blood flowing down over his tusks. Now you know that the boars of the Dunnwood are as tall as a horse and all as shaggy-haired as a yak. And your son, being only thirteen at the time, sees that this tusker is about to charge and hasn’t the wit to do what any man should.”

  “Which is?” Roland asked. He’d never hunted boars in the Dunnwood.

  “Why, turn his mount and run!” Baron Poll shouted. “No, your son sits there looking at the beast, making a fine target of his horse, and no doubt he’s peed his breeches about now.

  “Well, that old boar charges and catches his mount right under the belly with a good upper thrust that disembowels the horse and throws your son about four feet in the air.

  “Now, as I said, it was about an hour past that we’d lost the hounds, and we’d been riding to find them. We could hear them yapping off in the hills, you see.

  “So your son comes down off his horse, and it’s sort of limping away, and the boar sees your lad standing there, and your son takes off running so fast, I swear by the Powers I thought he’d taken flight!”

  Baron Poll’s eyes were wide with delight at telling the story. It sounded as if he’d told this one many a time before, and he’d honed it well.

  “So then young Squire Borenson, upon hearing the hounds yapping, thinks to himself—as we later found out—I’ll run to the dogs! They’ll protect me!

  “And so he takes off running through the bracken, with that boar right behind him.

  “Now, at the time, your son had just taken two endowments of metabolism—so you can imagine how fast he’s running. He’s sprinting along at thirty miles an hour, shouting ‘Murder! Bloody murder!’—as if he’s raising the hue and cry—and every time he slows, that boar puts the fear of death into him.

  “Now, he’s run about half a mile, all uphill, and I start to thinking it’s about time to save his life, so I go charging up on my own mount, right behind him and the boar. But they’re running so fast through the underbrush that I keep having to weave around them, looking for a clearer course, and so I never can quite get within throwing distance of that boar.