The RuneLords

by David Farland

  It was foolhardy of Gaborn to go to Sylvarresta. Foolhardy and great of heart.

  Yet King Orden had long been Sylvarresta's friend, and he knew that had the tables been turned, had he been the first to hear that Jas Laren Sylvarresta stood in need, he'd have ridden hard to fight beside his old comrade.

  Now Orden had to satisfy himself by watching the city burn from afar, awaiting reports from the scouts who rode ahead. He had six scouts on good force horses. It would not be a long wait. Though his soldiers and their horses needed rest, Mendellas would not sleep this night, perhaps not for many nights to come. With some forty endowments of stamina, he need never sleep again, if he did not so desire.

  Certainly, Raj Ahten would not sleep tonight.

  On the rock above him sat Orden's Days, and his son's. King Orden looked up at the men, wondering. Why did Gaborn's Days not go to him? If Gaborn was at Castle Sylvarresta, then the Days should follow. He'd know if another Days spotted Gaborn. Or perhaps Gaborn's whereabouts did not matter. Perhaps his son was captured, or dead?

  As he kept his slow watch over the next hour, letting his mind drift and dream, he considered his own defenses at home. King Orden sometimes had...impressions...of danger, felt the presence of reavers on his southern border. As a child, his father had told him that these impressions were the heritage of kings, a birthright. He considered now, but felt nothing.

  He wondered about the fortresses on his borders. Were they secure?

  A scout soon reached King Orden with news. Sylvarresta had indeed fallen--captured at sunset without a fight.

  Worse than Orden had feared. At that news, King Orden took a lacquered oak message case that had been tucked inside his belt. It was a message to King Sylvarresta, sealed with the signet of the Duke of Longmont.

  King Orden's scouts had intercepted Longmot's messenger at dawn, if "intercepted" was the proper word. More particularly, Orden's scout had found the man dead, his corpse concealed in the brush beside the road, killed by an assassin's arrow. Orden's scouts would not have recovered the message box if not for the stink of the body.

  The countryside was crawling with assassins, set along the road in pairs.

  Under normal circumstances, Orden would have respected the privacy of the parties involved, would have delivered the message case to Sylvarresta himself. But Sylvarresta had fallen, and Orden worried that Longmont had sent word of evil tidings. Perhaps it, too, was besieged. It was, next to Castle Sylvarresta, the most defensible fortress in all Heredon. Though nineteen other fortifications dotted the kingdom, they guarded smaller cities and villages. Five of the fortresses were only minor keeps.

  So King Orden broke the wax seal on the message case, pulled out the fine yellow parchment scroll, unrolled it, and read by starlight. The flowing script was obviously written by a feminine hand, but had been written hastily, with words crossed out:

  To His Most Rightful Sovereign King, Jas Laren Sylvarresta: All Honor and Good Cheer Wishes, from His Most Devoted Subject, The Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren

  Dearest Uncle: You are betrayed. Unbeknown to me, my husband has sold you, permitting Raj Ahten's forces to move through the Dunnwood. Apparently, my husband hoped to rule as regent in your stead, should Heredon fall.

  But Raj Ahten himself was here two nights ago, with a powerful army. My husband ordered the drawbridge lowered for him, kept our soldiers at bay.

  In one long night, Raj Ahten came and took endowments from many. He repaid my husband's treachery with treachery of his own, hanging him by his guts from the iron grates outside the window of his own bedroom.

  Raj Ahten knows better than to trust a traitor.

  As for me, he treated me badly, using me as only a husband should use his wife. Then he forced me to grant him an endowment of glamour, and he left a regent, some scholars, and a small army to manage the city in his absence.

  For two days his regent has tried to suck this land dry, taking endowments by the hundreds. He cares little whether those who give the endowments live or die. So many Dedicates lie heaped in the bailey, no one will be able to care for them. I myself he used as a vector, taking glamour from hundreds of women, while my sons, Wren and Dru, though they are mere children, now vector stamina and grace to the Wolf Lord.

  It was not till an hour ago that our own servants and a few guards managed to revolt, overthrowing our tormentors. It was a bloody struggle.

  But all was not for nothing. We have captured forty thousand forcibles!

  Here, King Orden halted, for his breath suddenly left him. He stood up, began pacing. He felt faint.

  Forty thousand forcibles! It was unheard of! In all the Northern kingdoms, not so many endowments had been given in twenty years. Orden glanced up at the pair of Days sitting on the rock above. These men knew that those forcibles were hidden there. By the Powers, Orden wished he knew a hundredth of what the Days must know.

  Raj Ahten was a fool to hold such great wealth in one place. Someone would steal those forcibles.

  By the Powers, I'll steal them! Orden thought.

  Unless it was a trap! Had Raj Ahten really believed he could hold Longmont?

  Orden pondered. If one went into a foreign castle, took major endowments from all the royalty, all the finest soldiers, one could supplant one's enemies in a single night, steal their strength and leave them gasping in defeat.

  The Duchess had said it was the house servants who managed the revolt--few soldiers. So her soldiers were dead--or drained of endowments. Perhaps it was not a trap.

  Raj Ahten had trusted his own men to hold his treasure for him in Longmont--a fine castle, with stunning defenses. What better place to keep so many forcibles? And from there, he would have taken forcibles to Castle Sylvarresta, to drain his enemies. Indeed, he probably already had some in his possession.

  King Orden read on:

  I trust that these forcibles shall be of great use to you in prosecuting this war. Meanwhile, an occupying army approaches from the south. According to communiques, it should be here in four days.

  I've sent to Groverman and Dreis, requesting aid. I believe we can withstand a siege, with their help.

  The Wolf Lord left me no palace guard, no soldiers. Those who have given endowments are vectored to Raj Ahten through my sons.

  Raj Ahten is on his way to you in Castle Sylvarresta. I do not believe he can reach you until the night before Hostenfest.

  He is dangerous. He has so many endowments of glamour, he shines like the sun. For decades now, Longmont has been home to many vain women, each hoping to be more beautiful than her neighbor. Their beauty is all vectored through me.

  I will not uphold your enemies.

  In two days, all those who have granted endowments in Longmont shall die by my hand. It grieves me that I must kill my own sons, but only by doing so can I revive enough troops to defend the city.

  I've hidden the forcibles. They are buried beneath the turnip field at Bredsfor Manor.

  I suspect you will not see me again, not alive. I'm placing Captain Cedrick Tempest, of the palace guard, in temporary command of Longmont.

  My husband hangs from his window still, his own intestines serving as a rope for his neck. I will not cut the villain down. If I had known beforehand of his treachery, I'd not have dealt with him so kindly.

  I go now, to sharpen a knife. Should I fail, you know what to do.

  Your Devoted Niece,

  The Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren

  Mendellas Orden finished reading the letter, heart hammering, then laid it aside. "You know what to do." The age-old cry of those forced to serve as vectors: Kill me, if I can't kill myself.

  King Orden had often met the Duchess. She'd always struck him as a mousy little lady, too timid for grand deeds.

  It took a strong woman to kill herself, her children. Yet King Orden knew that there was a time when one could follow no other course. So, Raj Ahten had vectored the soldiery through the royal family, forced them to grant major endowments, so the soldi
ers would never be able to fight again-unless the royal family was slaughtered.

  The Duchess would have to do her duty, butcher her own children to save the kingdom. It was an evil trade. King Orden only hoped his own son did not fall into Raj Ahten's clutches. Orden imagined that he had the strength to kill his own son, if the need arose.

  But he dreaded the deed.

  King Orden turned over the letter, read the date. Harvest 19. Written almost two days past, over a hundred miles away.

  The Duchess hadn't expected Raj Ahten to reach Castle Sylvarresta until tomorrow. So she planned to kill herself at dawn, before the occupying army arrived.

  A pity she hadn't killed herself this morning. Her sacrifice might have done King Sylvarresta some good.

  Orden quickly scrawled letters to the Duke of Groverman and the Earl of Dreis--the lords with castles closest to Longmont--begging them both to send aid while at the same time requesting it from neighbors. Though the Duchess had already sought aid from those lords, Orden feared that her messengers might have met the same fate as the man he'd found on the road. To be certain that Dreis and Groverman came, he said bluntly that Raj Ahten had left a hoard of treasure at Longmont.

  "Borenson?" King Orden called when he finished. The captain was sitting on the rocks above him, just a few feet below the tangled limbs of the graaks' nest.

  "What is it, milord?" he asked, scrambling down to Mendellas' side.

  "I have a job for you, a dangerous job."

  "Good!" Borenson said, his voice full of cheer. Borenson dropped beside the King in the starlight. He was a full head taller than the King, his red hair spilling down from under his helm, over his shoulders. It wasn't right for vassals to be so large. He watched the King expectantly.

  "I'm taking five hundred men south, to Castle Longmont--right now. A thousand more will follow at dawn. I want you to take five hundred men with you now. Our scouts tell me that a few thousand nomen are in the woods at Castle Sylvarresta. If you ride hard, you can meet them at dawn, outside the castle, and let the men practice their archery.

  "Keep your forces in the woods. The Wolf Lord won't dare send reinforcements from the castle if he can't guess your number. If he should attack, retreat gracefully, heading for Longmont. At noon, your men will retreat to Longmont in any case.

  "It seems that the Duchess of Longmont has her hands full. Raj Ahten took her castle, stole endowments from hundreds of her people. At dawn she plans to kill herself, and anyone else who is a Dedicate to Raj Ahten. And it seems that she's captured a great treasure. So I must go to relieve her of it. I'll want you to keep the Wolf Lord off my back."

  King Orden considered his next move. He knew these woods well, had hunted the Dunnwood many times over the past twenty years. He needed to use that knowledge to his advantage.

  "I will be destroying the bridge at Hayworth, for all the good it will do. So you will send your men to Boar's Ford--to that narrow canyon below the ford. There they will sit in ambush. When Raj Ahten's troops come through, your men will attack--push boulders on them from above, loose arrows, set the east end of the canyon ablaze. But don't let your men draw sword unless you have to. Your troops will then race for Longmont. You understand? Your only purpose is to harry the Wolf Lord, to cause damage, to nibble at the edge of his defenses, to slow his journey."

  Borenson was smiling even wider, grinning like a maniac by now. It was practically a suicide mission. Orden wondered why that proposition delighted him. Did the man wish for death, or was it merely the deadly challenge that thrilled him?

  "Unfortunately, you may not be with your troops."

  "I won't?" Borenson's smile faltered.

  "No, I have something more reckless in mind for you. Tomorrow at noon, while your troops retreat toward the ambush, I want you, personally--and you alone--to ride into Castle Sylvarresta, to deliver a message to Raj Ahten."

  Borenson began grinning again, but it was not the crazed, reckless grin he'd had before. Instead, he seemed more determined. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow.

  "Be surly, abuse Raj Ahten as best you know how. Tell him that I've captured Longmont. Crow about it. As proof of my deed, tell him that I killed his Dedicates there at dawn--"

  Borenson swallowed hard.

  "Make him believe that I have taken forty thousand of his forcibles into my possession, and that I've put them to good use. Tell him that I will sell...five thousand of them back to him. Tell him that he knows the price."

  "Which is?" Borenson asked.

  "Don't name it," Orden answered. "If he has my son, then he will offer my son. If he does not have my son, then he will think you speak of King Sylvarresta's family, and he will offer the King.

  "No matter what hostage is offered, check on the condition of the hostage before you leave. See if Raj Ahten has forced Gaborn--or King Sylvarresta--into giving an endowment. I suspect he will use the royal family as vectors for major endowments. In fifteen hours, he could easily take hundreds of such endowments. If so, then you know what to do."

  "Pardon me?" Borenson asked.

  "You heard right. You know what to do."

  Borenson laughed, almost a coughing sound, but there was no longer a smile on his face, no longer a gleam of delight in his eye. His face had gone all hard, impassive, and his voice carried a tone of disbelief. "You would have me kill King Sylvarresta, or your son?"

  Overhead, one of the huge graaks called out, swept low. There was a time in Orden's life when he had been small enough to ride one of the huge reptiles. When he'd weighed fifty pounds, at the age of six, his father had let him take long journeys on the backs of tamed graaks with the other skyriders, over the mountains to the far kingdom of Dzerlas in Inkarra. Only boys with endowments of strength and wit and stamina and grace could take such journeys.

  But when King Orden's son, Gaborn, became a skyrider in his turn, Mendellas never let Gaborn take a far journey. He'd tried hard to protect his son. He'd loved the boy too much. He'd hoped the lad would have time to grow, gain some maturity--a commodity all too rare among Runelords, who were often forced of necessity to take endowments of metabolism, grow old far before their time. There were things that King Orden still needed to teach his son, arts of diplomacy and strategy and intrigue that could not be learned in the House of Understanding.

  Moreover, Orden's own father had been captured when he was but a boy, and then had been forced to give endowments to a Wolf Lord in the Southern Wastes. His father's friends had rescued him from his fate--with a sword.

  Borenson could never know how much giving this order hurt. King Orden felt determined that his men would never know: Gaborn's great heart might well have earned him a death sentence.

  King Orden clapped the big warrior on the shoulder in sympathy. Borenson was trembling. It would be a hard thing to go from being Gaborn's sworn protector to his assassin. "You heard me right. When Raj Ahten gets your message, he will race to Longmont, to meet me in battle. He will have hundreds of Dedicates in Castle Sylvarresta by dawn--Dedicates that he won't he able to carry south in such a hurry, Dedicates that he won't he able to properly guard.

  "I want you to go into the Dedicates' Keep at Castle Sylvarresta, once Raj Ahten leaves, and slaughter everyone left within."

  The big warrior's grin had now faded completely.

  "You understand that this must be done. My life, your life, the lives of everyone in Mystarria--everyone you've ever known and loved--might well depend on it.

  "We can show no weakness. We can show no mercy."

  From a pouch at his hip, King Orden withdrew a small ivory flask. Captured inside were mists from the fields of Mystarria. Orden's water wizards had said that the flask contained enough mist to hide an army should the need arise. Borenson's army might need such a mist. He handed the artifact to Borenson, and wondered if he should also give the man his golden shield. It had a powerful spell of water warding in it. Orden had brought it as a betrothal gift to Sylvarresta. Now, he considered that he mi
ght need that shield himself.

  Orden wondered. He did not want to kill Sylvarresta. Yet if Sylvarresta succumbed to Raj Ahten, then it became Orden's duty. The Kings of Rofehavan needed to know that no one could give endowments to the Wolf Lord. No one would be permitted to do so and live. Not even Orden's best friend.

  "We will do what we must to our friends, our kin," King Orden said to himself as much as to Borenson, "if they serve the enemy. That is our duty. This is war."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  A WIZARD IN CHAINS

  Shortly before dawn, the sounds of many clanking chains preceded Binnesman into the King's audience hall; then the guards dragged the herbalist in to face Raj Ahten, as Iome watched.

  She shuddered and hid in a darkened corner, afraid somehow that Binnesman would spot her, would loathe her very existence. In the past few hours, she'd had time to inspect the rune of power branded into the skin of her breast. It was a complex thing, a horrid thing that tried to draw far more than mere beauty from her. It tried to draw her pride, her hope.

  Though she fought the influence of the rune, though she denied this boon to Raj Ahten, still she felt less than human. A mere rag in the corner, something that cringed and watched.

  Legend said that long ago, the facilitator Phedrosh had created a rune of will, a symbol that sapped the strength of mind from its victims. Had Raj Ahten had such a magic symbol built into the rune that had branded Iome, she'd not have been able to deny him.

  Now she felt grateful that Phedrosh had destroyed that rune of power and the secret of its making, before he fled to Inkarra.