Brotherhood of the Wolf

by David Farland

  It was such a stunningly beautiful landscape that Roland found it all the more macabre to be standing here on the battlements in the misting rain, straining to hear sounds of engagement.

  On the castle walls, men began to blow warhorns, signaling to the armies of Indhopal lost out in that damnable fog, trying to steer them to safety.

  The troops responded by wheeling their horses and racing toward the castle. Every moment or two, Roland could hear a horse trip and fall in that impenetrable mist, armor clashing as some knight met the ground.

  And then the first troops appeared at the edge of the fog, about half a mile from Carris.

  These were not fierce force warriors. They were archers with hornbows, wearing white burnooses with a little leather armor; or artillerymen with wide bronze helms and nothing more than a long knife to protect themselves; or young squires who were more used to polishing armor than wearing it.

  In short, this was the rearguard, the dregs of Raj Ahten’s army, all common support troops out of Indhopal come to hold Carris if it was taken. Most of them marched on foot.

  Only their leaders rode horses, and once those leaders spotted the castle, they wheeled their mounts and charged for safety in blind panic, leaving the footmen to whatever fate they could manage.

  The commoners of Indhopal began shouting, fled through the villages and fields toward Castle Carris. Everywhere around them rose the thunderous roar of reavers rushing through the fog.

  The smell of dust and blood began to saturate the air, along with cries of terror, and though Roland had still not seen a reaver, he knew that out in the fog men were fighting for their lives.

  All along the castle walls, warhorns blared. Soldiers shouted encouragement. The troops of Indhopal sprinted toward Carris, perhaps twenty thousand strong.

  Then the reavers came.

  One monster raced from that damnable fog, trailing mist as if it were afire. Roland stared in horror at his first reaver.

  It looked like no creature that had ever taken form in the Overworld. It was a blade-bearer in rank, a warrior without the glittering fiery runes that distinguished a mage.

  The reaver ran on four legs, reserving its massive front paws to carry its weapon. In shape, the monster might best have been described as formed like an immense crab. The reaver’s thick outer carapace looked to be the gray of granite from above, but had muddy highlights beneath the legs.

  Its head was enormous, the size of a wagon, something of a shovel-shaped thing, with rows of waving feelers—called “philia”—along the back of its skull and down its jaws. Its teeth shone like quartz crystals, and the monster had no eyes or ears, no nostrils.

  Aside from its breathing, it made no noise, no hissing roar. It merely ran among the fleeing warriors, racing past them at three times the speed a commoner could run. It sped past warriors like a sheepdog trying to head off a flock, as if it would not bother to kill a man, but sought only to beat their retreat.

  But it wisely stopped well short of the castle. When it reached a point near the front ranks of the warriors, it wheeled and went to work.

  It held in its paws a glory hammer, a pole made of black reaver steel with six hundred pounds of metal at its head. According to tradition it was called a “glory hammer” because “it makes a glorious mess of a man when it hits him.”

  The first swing of its glory hammer swept low over the ground without touching it, like a farmer with a scythe cutting through straw. The stroke knocked five men into oblivion, and Roland saw bodies tossed a hundred feet. One poor fellow’s head whipped through the air and landed in Lake Donnestgree with a splash a hundred yards from the battle.

  Some men drew weapons and tried to fight past the reaver. Others sought to surge past it. Others turned and fled madly or sought refuge in cottages or under bushes.

  The monster’s glory hammer rose and fell so swiftly, with such astonishing grace and surety, Roland could hardly comprehend it. For such a large beast, the reaver moved with incredible grace. In ten seconds fifty men lay dead, yet the monster’s work had just begun.

  Roland’s mind blanked in horror, and he found himself gasping for breath, heart hammering so loudly that he feared men would think him a coward. He turned to see how others reacted. A lad next to him had gone pale in terror, but stood stiff, his jaw clenched stoically. Roland thought the boy was holding up quite well, until he saw pee streaming down the fellow’s right leg.

  From the barbicans came the whonk, whonk of artillerymen loosing ballista bolts. Shaped like giant arrows, the huge bolts were made of thirty pounds of steel. The first two shots fell short of their mark, tearing into the ranks of fleeing warriors. The sound of cranking gears followed as artillerymen struggled to reload.

  Their marksman shouted, “Hold your shot until the reaver comes in range.”

  By then a hundred men had died, and on the walls people began to shout, “Look! Look!”

  At the edge of the fog, reavers charged forward, trailing mist. Not by the dozens or hundreds, but by the thousands.

  They bore giant blades, glory hammers, and knight gigs—long poles with enormous hooks on the end.

  In their midst were mages, glittering creatures so covered with fiery runes that they looked as if they were clothed in flames. They bore crystalline staves that glowed with their own inner light.

  The thunder of carapaces bouncing over the ground made the castle walls tremble. The terrified cries of common soldiers became a roaring in Roland’s ears. His legs felt so weak, they probably could not hold him up much longer.

  Roland felt urine stream down his own leg.

  “By the Powers!” Baron Poll bellowed.

  Men began to leap from the castle walls out into the lake rather than face the reavers.

  Some nearby fool with a voice like a town crier’s shouted, “Please remain calm! Please remain calm! Please remain vigilantly optimistic, and I’m fairly certain we’ll all come out of this … intact.”

  Roland wondered if the fellow was trying to reassure him, or if he only sought to face death like the legendary knights of old—in a spirit of good humor.

  If ever there was a time in Roland’s life to panic, it was now.

  Baron Poll glanced back, his face lit by dawn’s first light. The fat knight tried to make a jest, speaking loudly to be heard over the clash of arms and death cries in the background. “Take a deep breath, lad. It may be your last.”

  39

  A SEPARATE WORLD

  When the clubfooted boy fetched Myrrima from the archery range an hour after sunrise, she expected the lad to tell her that it was time to mount up.

  Instead, he told her simply that Iome wanted her at the Dedicates’ Keep.

  She hurried to meet Her Highness. The morning sun came bright here at Castle Groverman. It was rising in a perfect blue sky, spreading the day before it. Fish eagles wheeled in the distance.

  From the courtyard of the keep, Myrrima could see out on the plain for twenty miles: the Wind River winding like a silver thread through the heather, the ranches and cottages at every little hillock by the river’s side, the herds of cattle and horses dotting the heather.

  Outside the keep proper, doves and pigeons pecked by the hitching posts on the green. Myrrima went to the wall that surrounded the Dedicates’ Keep. Its brown sandstone walls could not match the height of the keep at Castle Sylvarresta. Though the keep was large, with a huge open courtyard, it was not designed to hold more than a couple of hundred Dedicates.

  As Myrrima approached the keep, she felt surprised to hear something odd: music.

  Inside the Dedicates’ Keep—even at this early hour—she could hear a song played on pipes, drums, tambour, and lute, accompanied by singing. The Dedicates, those not too weakened from granting endowments, were making merry.

  Just inside the portcullis, she found a knot of curious folk standing there in a crowd, looking off onto the green.

  As Myrrima passed them, one old woman whispered, “That’s her,
the one who slew the Darkling Glory.” Myrrima felt her face turning red. “They’re calling her ‘Here-don’s Glory,’” the old woman continued.

  “She’s been out all night practicing with that bow,” a young lad said. “I hear she can knock the eye out of a diving hawk at two hundred paces. Now she’s off to kill Raj Ahten himself!”

  Myrrima ducked her head, tried to ignore the rumors. “Knock the eye out of a diving hawk, indeed!” she wanted to protest. “I’m lucky if I don’t get all tangled up trying to string my own bow.”

  Myrrima entered the green and felt astonished to see every Dedicate in the keep out on the grass. Tables were filled with drink, and the cooks had made savory pies and tarts by the score. Those Dedicates who had given brawn, grace, or metabolism—and thus could not easily move—lay shaded beneath a huge oak in the courtyard while all other Dedicates celebrated.

  Blind men and women danced close together, careful not to step on one another’s toes, while the deaf and mute romped to a merry jig. Witless fools capered madly.

  Myrrima stood a moment just inside the gates gazing into the courtyard, baffled.

  One old blind fellow sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, eating tarts and drinking from a jug of wine. He had weathered features and stringy hair.

  “Why are they dancing?” Myrrima asked. “Hostenfest ended two days ago.”

  The blind man smiled up at her, proffering his bottle of wine. “Tradition!” he said. “Today we revel, for our lords go to war!”

  “Tradition?” Myrrima asked. “Dedicates always do this when their lords go to war?”

  “Ayuh.” The fellow nodded. “Have a drink.”

  “No, thank you.” Myrrima was perplexed. She’d never heard of this tradition. On the other hand, in all of her life, Heredon had never gone to war.

  She looked up at the keep, with its sandstone chambers to house the Dedicates, its broad walls and the watchtowers above.

  Once a man entered this place, he forsook the wider world—until either the lord or Dedicate passed away. Myrrima had seldom considered before how this place became its own separate world, untouched by outside affairs.

  Amazed, she saw that some Dedicates were now dancing.

  “Will this go on all day?” she asked.

  “Ayuh,” the blind fellow said. “Until the battle.”

  She wondered. “Ah, I see…. Today, if your lord dies, your sight will be restored. What better reason to celebrate?”

  The blind fellow gripped his wine bottle fiercely, as if it were a cudgel, and snarled, “What a rude creature you are! We celebrate because today we”—he thumped his chest for emphasis—“are going to war. Today, my lord Groverman will use my eyes, but I would gladly fight at his side if I could.”

  He sloshed wine onto the ground. “And by this libation, I implore the Earth: may Groverman come home victorious, to fight another day! Long live Duke Groverman!”

  The fellow raised his wine bottle in the air and took a long swig, toasting the Duke’s health.

  Myrrima had spoken thoughtlessly. She understood that she had insulted the fellow, but she’d meant no harm.

  Near one wall, in the shadows apart from the revelers, Myrrima saw Iome encircled by three dozen peasants, men and women of various ages and backgrounds. They held hands and circled slowly as Iome spoke. In the background, two minstrels played a soft march on flutes and drums. It was an ancient tune.

  Myrrima recognized immediately what was happening. When a warrior sought endowments, he went to the facilitator, who kept a list of all those who had ever offered to act as Dedicates. The facilitator would then gather candidates, and because it was imperative that the Dedicates offer themselves freely and completely, the warrior often would need to speak. He’d tell the candidates of the need that drove him, promise to serve well if granted endowments, and offer support to the Dedicates and their families.

  Thus Myrrima was not surprised to hear Iome speaking intently: “I ask not for myself alone. The Earth has spoken to my husband, and warned that the end of the Age of Man is upon us. Thus if we fight, we fight not for ourselves, but for all of mankind!”

  One man in the circle called out, “Your Highness, forgive me, but you’re not trained for war. Might my endowment not serve another lord better?”

  “You’re right,” Iome countered. “I have some good training with the saber, and if I had an endowment of brawn, I could bear a warhammer as well as any man. But I don’t pretend that I’ll fight with great training and skill. To fight with great speed is as deadly as to fight with great skill. So I’ll want metabolism instead.” There was a gasp of surprise from the potential Dedicates.

  “Why? Why would you want to die young like that?” one older woman in the group asked as she plodded along slowly in the circle.

  Myrrima pitied Iome. Myrrima had never engaged in a ceremony like this. She doubted that she could do it. She knew she didn’t have a way with words. She’d never be able to talk a stranger into giving her the use of his or her most precious attribute.

  “I carry the King’s son within me,” Iome explained. “Yesterday when the Darkling Glory came to Castle Sylvarresta, it sought the child’s life, not mine. If I carry him to term, the Prince will not be born until midsummer. But if I take enough metabolism now, I can deliver in six weeks.”

  Good girl, Myrrima thought. All of the potential Dedicates could see what she wanted. Iome would become a warrior, give her life to buy a life for her son. Iome’s love for her child might sway these people.

  The old woman stared at her intently and broke from the circle, taking a step inward and bowing on one knee. “My metabolism is yours, and your child’s.” But the others continued circling, asking questions.

  Someone tapped Myrrima on the back. She turned and looked up into the face of one of the largest men she’d ever encountered. He threw a shadow that could darken a small crowd, and he looked as if he’d more likely be seen carrying a horse about than to have it carry him. He was a woodsman by the smell of the pine on him. He wore a leather vest with no shirt underneath, so that she could see his muscular chest. He looked to be in his midthirties. He grinned down at her, his bearded face filled with awe. “Are you the one?”

  “Which one?” Myrrima asked.

  “What killed the Darkling Glory?”

  Myrrima nodded dumbly, unsure how to speak to someone whose face revealed such awe.

  “I sawer it,” the fellow said. “Flew right overhead, it did. Blackened the sky for miles. Never thought anyone could kill it.”

  “I shot it,” Myrrima said. She realized that she was clutching her bow defensively, holding it close to her breast. “You’d have done the same if you were there.”

  “Hah! Not bloody likely.” The big man grinned. “I’d have turned tail and still be running.”

  Myrrima accepted his compliment. He was right after all. Most men would have run.

  The fellow nodded, as if too shy to speak. She could tell that he was none too bright. “You’ll need a new bow,” he said.

  She glanced at her bow, wondering if she’d damaged it. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll need a steel bow,” the fellow said, “’cause I could crack that one in two, no problem.”

  Then she understood. Her reputation—however undeserved—preceded her. This monster meant to give her an endowment of brawn. Many a knight would have gladly paid fifty gold eagles for such an endowment, ten years of a workman’s wages. By the Powers, he was big!

  “I see,” Myrrima murmured in wonder. She dared not say that she thought his admiration undeserved, for if she had the brawn of a man like this, she suspected that she could become the kind of hero he believed her to be.

  Several other peasants standing at this big fellow’s back rushed forward. And Myrrima had a second realization. The knot of people waiting at the gates had all been waiting for her. They’d come to offer endowments.

  Unlike Iome, “Heredon’s Glory” did not have to talk th
em into giving her their finest attributes.

  40

  TALES OF MADNESS

  Daylight found Gaborn deep in the lowlands of Fleeds. The northlands had been hilly, filled with shepherds’ cottages and narrow roads bordered by stone fences. Huge rocks crowned with twisted pines had stood along the road like ancient sentinels. The starlight fell over the countryside as heavy and palpable as if it were silver coins.

  Gaborn had not dared ride hard in the darkness, no matter how great the danger he felt arising at Carris, and so the vast majority of his troops kept pace through the night Though he had begun to receive endowments, a fall from his horse could break his neck as easily as it could any other man’s.

  Yet even as he rode, he felt himself swelling, growing in power. He’d taken less than an hour to receive endowments at Castle Groverman. He’d taken one each of brawn, metabolism, grace, and stamina. Then he’d fled, leaving Groverman’s facilitator to find others willing to Vector endowments through his new Dedicates.

  He’d warned the facilitator that he’d need forty endowments by nightfall, and the facilitator had promised to have it done.

  So as he rode that night, he grew more refreshed with each passing hour. He grew stronger, faster.

  Though the deed repulsed him, he could not deny that the taste of evil was sweet, and unwittingly on one occasion he even found himself wondering, If Raj Ahten sought to use forcibles to become the Sum of All Men, could I not do the same?

  Yet he cast the thought away quickly, for it was not worthy of a king.

  He rode now with the wizard Binnesman at his side, along with five hundred lords out of Orwynne and Heredon. Gaborn had provided a fast force horse so that his Days could accompany the party.