The RuneLords

by David Farland

  In their own way, Jureem believed the Days were far more of a threat than the irrepressible Knights Equitable.

  The Days, of course, knew Raj Ahten's actions. The Days knew well in advance that Raj Ahten planned to attack Longmont, knew he'd left the castle without a sufficient garrison. The Days' twin, the man or woman who shared his mind in the monastery to the north, of course knew what had come to pass. And anything learned by one Days could swiftly be relayed to many.

  It was all Jureem could do to keep from whirling now and gutting the Days.

  "I think, we are betrayed, my lord," Jureem said, glancing at the Days. "Though I know not how." His master was watching, had seen the covert accusation.

  Yet what could the master do? If Jureem accused the Days falsely, and slew him, he might make matters worse. All of the Days would then openly fight Raj Ahten, betray his secrets into every ear.

  On the other hand, if Jureem did not slay the Days, then a spy would remain in the camp.

  Raj Ahten stopped.

  "What will we do now?" Feykaald asked, wringing his little hands. They stuck out from his turquoise silk robes like twisted knots from a tree limb.

  "What do you think we should do?" Raj Ahten asked. "You are my counselor, Feykaald. So counsel me."

  "We should send a message," Feykaald whispered, "to General Suh, and divert his armies to us for reinforcement, instead of having him attack Orwynne."

  Feykaald was old, tough, and full of experience. He'd lived long by being careful. But Jureem knew that Raj Ahten often desired less-cautious counsel. The Wolf Lord had grown in power by listening to Jureem.

  He leaned his ear to Jureem. "And what would you do?"

  Jureem bowed his head. He spoke carefully as he thought aloud. "Forgive me, O Blessed Light, if in this matter, I do not seem so alarmed." He flashed a distrustful glance at Feykaald. "It may be true that King Orden has captured your forcibles, but who will he use them on? You have already stripped endowments from everyone who was worthy at Longmont. Orden cannot use the local populace. Which means he would have to take endowments only from his warriors--an unfortunate proposition, for with each endowment he took to himself, he would weaken his own army."

  "So you propose?"

  "Go to Longmont and take your forcibles back!" It was, of course, the only possible answer. Raj Ahten could ill afford to wait for reinforcements. It would only give Orden time to either slip away with the treasure or draw reinforcements himself.

  Raj Ahten smiled at this answer. It was risky, Jureem knew. Perhaps Orden wanted to draw them out of Castle Sylvarresta for an ambush. But all life was a risk. And Raj Ahten could ill afford to do nothing.

  The Master had taken six endowments of metabolism. In doing so, he was able to thwart the assassins who came after him time and again.

  But taking such endowments carried a great danger, the promise of an early death. Metabolism could serve as a weapon against its owner. Indeed, in one case, according to legend, a Dedicate who gave a great king metabolism was kidnapped by the King's enemies. Then, the enemies gave hundreds of endowments of metabolism to the Dedicate, making him a vector, so that the King died of old age in a matter of weeks. For this reason, Raj Ahten had vectored all his metabolism through a single Dedicate, a man he always kept near to his side, in case he needed to slay the man and break his own link.

  Few kings ever dared take more than one or two endowments of metabolism. With six, Raj Ahten could run six times the speed of another man.

  But he also aged six times faster. And though Jureem's master had many thousands of endowments of stamina, and would grow old with incredible grace, Jureem knew that the human body was meant to wear out over time. His master had lived for thirty-two years now, but because of his many endowments of metabolism, he had aged far more than that. Physically, he was in mid-eighties.

  Raj Ahten could not hope to live much beyond the biological age of a hundred and ten, nor could he survive without his endowments.

  Only a few years back, Raj Ahten had made the unfortunate mistake of slaying some of his Dedicates, so that he could slow his own aging. But within a week, a Northern assassin had nearly slain the Wolf Lord. Since then, Raj Ahten had been forced to bear this lonely burden of high metabolism.

  Three years. He needed to unite the world, to become the Sum of All Men within three years, or he'd die. One year to consolidate the North. Two to take the South. If Jureem's master died, it might well be that the hope of all mankind would die with him. The reavers were that powerful.

  "So we go to Longmont," Raj Ahten said. "What of Orden's army in the Dunnwood?"

  "What army?" Jureem asked, certain from many small cues that there was no great threat. "Have you seen an army? I heard war horns blowing in the wood, but did I hear a thousand horses neighing? No! Orden's mists were there only to hide his weakness."

  Jureem squinted up at his master. Jureem's obesity, his bald head, made him look like an oaf, but Raj Ahten had long known that Jureem was every bit as dangerous as a cobra. Jureem found himself saying, "You have twenty legions approaching Longmont--an army Orden cannot withstand, not if you fight at our head. We must go and take Longmont."

  Raj Ahten nodded solemnly. Those forty thousand forcibles represented the labor of thousands of miners and craftsmen over the past three years. A large pocket of blood ore--now tapped dry. They were irreplaceable.

  "Prepare the men to march," Raj Ahten said. "We will empty Sylvarresta's treasury, take what food we need from villages we pass. We leave in an hour."

  "My lord, what of the horses?" Feykaald asked. "We will need mounts."

  "Our soldiers have enough endowments; most need no mounts," Raj Ahten said. "And common horses require food and rest, more than a man.

  My warriors shall run to Longmont. We will use what horses we can. We'll empty Sylvarresta's stables."

  A hundred and sixty miles by road. Jureem knew that Raj Ahten could walk that distance himself in a few hours, but most of his archers would not bear the burden of more than a single endowment of metabolism. Such soldiers could not run to Longmont in less than a day.

  Raj Ahten would have to leave his nomen here. They would only slow the march. The giants and war dogs, though, could take such abuse.

  "But," Feykaald urged, "what of your Dedicates here? You have two thousand in the Dedicates' Keep. We don't have horses to move them, nor do we have enough guards to protect them." His attention, too, had turned to logistics.

  Raj Ahten's answer was chilling. "We need leave no warriors to guard the Dedicates' Keep."

  "What?" Feykaald asked. "You practically beg Orden to attack. You'll get your Dedicates killed!"

  "Of course," Raj Ahten said. "But at least their deaths will serve some higher purpose."

  "Higher purpose? What higher purpose can their deaths serve?" Feykaald asked, wringing his hands, mystified.

  But Jureem suddenly saw the plan in all its cruelty and magnificence: "Their murders shall nurture facetiousness," Jureem reasoned. "For years, the Northern nations have united against us. But if Orden murders Sylvarresta's Dedicates, as he must, if he destroys his oldest and dearest friend, what will he win? He might weaken us for a few days, but he will weaken himself forever. Even if he should escape with the forcibles, the lords of the North will fear Orden. Some here in Heredon will revile him, perhaps even seek vengeance. All this shall work against House Orden, and destroying Orden is the key to taking the North."

  "You are most wise," Feykaald whispered, glancing first at Raj Ahten, and then at Jureem, his voice filled with awe.

  Yet such a waste saddened Jureem. So many men go through their lives content to do nothing, to be nothing. It was wise to harvest endowments from such men, put them to use. But wasting the lives of Dedicates this way--was a great shame.

  Jureem and Feykaald shouted a few curt orders, and in moments the castle walls became alive as the troops prepared for the march. Men rushed to and fro.

  Raj Ahten began heading
along the narrow cobbled streets, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, walking past the King's stables--some fine new wooden buildings that stood two stories tall. The upper story held hay and grain. The lower stabled the horses.

  His men rushed everywhere, claiming the first steeds they found, shouting orders to stablehands.

  As he passed, Raj Ahten peered into several open doors. A few Dedicate horses were kept in stalls, many of them hanging from slings where stable-masters groomed and pampered the unfortunate beasts. Barn swallows darted in and out through the open doors, peeping in alarm.

  The stables became tremendously busy. Not only were Sylvarresta's horses stabled here, but some of Raj Ahten's finer beasts had been brought last night, to be cared for by Raj Ahten's own stablemasters.

  He had enough good warhorses to mount a decent cavalry.

  Raj Ahten ducked into the last stable. The odor of dung and horse sweat clung in the air. Such stench irritated Raj Ahten, with his overdeveloped sense of smell. Raj Ahten's stablemaster washed the master's horses twice daily in lavender water and parsley, to diminish such offensive odors.

  In the front of the stable, a boy with dark hair stood by a stall. He'd bridled a force horse--a good one by the number of runes on it--and stood grooming it, preparing it for the saddle. Several horses of equal merit stood by. The lad was too pale of face to be one of Raj Ahten's own stablehands, had to have been inherited from Sylvarresta.

  The young man turned at the sound of Raj Ahten's entry, glanced nervously over his shoulder.

  "Leave," Raj Ahten told the boy. "Take the horses to the gates and hold them yourself. Reserve the best for Counselor Feykaald and Chancellor Jureem here--no other. Understand?" Raj Ahten pointed to Jureem, who stood just outside the door, and Jureem nodded curtly at the boy.

  The young man nodded, threw a small hunting saddle over the horse's back, and hurried past Raj Ahten and his counselors, gawking, terrified.

  Raj Ahten sometimes had that effect on people. It made him smile. From behind, the boy looked familiar. Yet Raj Ahten suddenly felt a certain muzziness, a cloudiness of thought as he tried to recall. Then he had it--he had seen the boy on the street, earlier this morning.

  But no, he now remembered, it had not been the boy. Merely a statue that looked like him. The young man led the horse from the stable, began buckling and cinching the saddle, tying on saddlebags, just out of earshot.

  Alone with his Days in the shadowed stable, Raj Ahten whirled and caught the Days by the throat. The man had been following two paces farther back than normal. Perhaps a sign of guilt, perhaps in fear.

  "What do you know of this attack at Longmont?" Raj Ahten asked, lifting the Days from the ground. "Who betrayed me?"

  "Not, aagh, me!" the Days responded. The man grabbed Raj Ahten's wrist with both hands, clung for dear life, trying to keep from strangling. Fear lined his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  "I don't believe you," Raj Ahten hissed. "Only you could have betrayed me--you or your kind."

  "No!" the Days gasped. "We, ugh, we take no sides in the affairs of state. This is...your affair."

  Raj Ahten looked in his face. The Days seemed terrified.

  Raj Ahten held him, muscles strong as Northern steel, and considered breaking the man's neck. Perhaps the Days was telling the truth, but he was still dangerous. Raj Ahten longed to crush the fellow, to rid himself of this pest. But if he did, every Days across the world would unite, would reveal Raj Ahten's secrets to his enemies--the numbers of his armies, the locations of his hidden Dedicates.

  Setting the Days down, Raj Ahten growled, "I am watching you."

  "Just as I watch you," the Days said, rubbing his sore neck.

  Raj Ahten turned, left the stable. The captain of his guard had said that Gaborn Val Orden had slain one of the Wolf Lord's scouts near here. The Prince would have left his scent behind.

  Raj Ahten had endowments of scent from over a thousand men. Most of his scouts had taken endowments of scent from dogs, and hence feared the dogbane that the Prince carried.

  "My lord, where are you going?" Jureem asked.

  "To hunt Prince Orden," Raj Ahten decided on impulse. His men would be long at work preparing for the march. With Raj Ahten's endowments of metabolism, he could spend time doing something of value, while others worked. "He may still be in the city. Some jobs you should not leave to lesser men."

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  A PRINCE UNMASKED

  "Och, orders is orders! His Lor'ship tol' me to put the King and his girl on proper 'orses--even if I had to tie 'em in the saddle! The wagon's too slow on such a long march, thru them woods," Gaborn said, affecting a Fleeds accent.

  The finest horsemen came from Fleeds, and he wanted to play the part of a trusted stableboy.

  Gaborn sat atop his stallion, gazing down at the captain in the Dedicates' Keep. The guards had raised the portcullis, and busily filled a great covered wain with Dedicates gained here at Castle Sylvarresta--those who acted as vectors for Raj Ahten, including King Sylvarresta.

  "He say to me none of thees!" the captain said in his thick Taifan accent, glancing about nervously. His men had abandoned their posts to raid the kitchens for provisions. Some officers looted Sylvarresta's treasury, and others down on Market Street were breaking shopwindows. Every moment the captain spent talking to Gaborn meant the captain would have less time to stuff his own pockets.

  "Aye, what do I know?" Gaborn asked.

  Gaborn turned to leave, nudging his mount with his heels, pulling around the four horses he had on his lines. It was a delicate moment. Gaborn's mount grew skittish, laid its ears back, rolled its eyes. Several soldiers hurried into the Dedicates' Keep, to help loot the treasury. Gaborn's stallion flinched at each soldier who crowded past, ventured a small kick at one man. One of the tethered stallions responded to the sudden move by bucking. Gaborn whispered soothing words to keep the whole bunch from bolting.

  In the last few minutes, the streets had suddenly come alive with people--a mob of Raj Ahten's men sprinted to the armory to grab supplies, weapons, horses; merchants rushed hither and thither to protect what they had from looters.

  "Halt!" the captain of the guard said before Gaborn got the horses turned. "I put King on horse. Which one ees for him?"

  Gaborn rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. If he'd truly been a stablehand, he'd have known which mount would remain calmest, which horse would try to keep the idiot king from falling. As it was, he feared that all five horses might bolt at any second. His own horse, the stallion he'd ridden into town the day before, had been trained to recognize the Wolf Lord's soldiers by their coat of arms, and to lash out against them with hoof and tooth. Surrounded by the Wolf Lord's troops, his stallion tossed its head from side to side, shifting its weight uneasily. Unsure. His mood unnerved the other horses.

  "Och, today, who knows?" Gaborn said. "I smell a likely storm. They're all a wee skittish."

  He looked at the horses. In truth, two mounts seemed less concerned by the commotion.

  "Prop the King on Uprising, and here's to hopin' he don't fall!" Gaborn patted a roan mount, inventing the horse's name on the spur of the moment. "The Princess, she sits on his sister 'ere, Retribution. Their Days can ride the skittish horses and plummet to their asses for all I care. Oh, and watch that girth strap on the King's saddle. It wiggles loose. Oh, and Death Knell there, put her last in your line. She kicks."

  Gaborn handed the lines to the captain, giving him the reins to all four mounts, and turned to leave.

  "Wait!" the captain said, as Gaborn suspected he would.

  Gaborn craned his neck, sat with a bored expression.

  "You geet King on horse! Everyone on horse. I want you personal to geet them down through gates."

  "I'm busy!" Gaborn objected. Sometimes the best way to secure a job was to pretend you did not want it. "I'm wanting to watch the soldiers leave."

  "Now!" the captain shouted.

 
Gaborn shrugged, urged the horses through the portcullis, into the bailey of the Dedicates' Keep, near the huge wain.

  No one had yet managed to bring the draft horses to pull the wain, so the wagon merely sat, its axletree lying on the ground.

  Gaborn looked into the wagon, tried not to stare too hard at Iome. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a sleeve, then got off his horse, helped Iome mount. He had no idea whether she could ride, felt relieved when she sat lightly atop her mare, took the reins confidently.

  The drooling King was another matter. His eyes grew frightened and he hooted and grasped the horse's neck with both hands as soon as Gaborn got him saddled, then tried to slide off. Though the King had once been a fine horseman, he gave no evidence of it now. Gaborn realized he would, quite literally, have to tie the man to the pommel.

  So Gaborn used one of his lead ropes and did just that, wrapping the rope around the King's waist twice, then tying him to the pommel in front, and to the hitches for the saddlebags in the rear.

  Gaborn's heart pounded. He was taking an insane risk: Iome could ride, but the King would pose a definite problem.

  Gaborn planned to take the King and Iome through the city gates, then gallop for the woods, where Orden's forces could protect him. Gaborn hoped that none of the enemy archers would dare shoot the King. As a vector, he was too valuable to Raj Ahten.

  Gaborn most feared that Raj Ahten's forces might lead a mounted pursuit.

  Fortunately, the King's horse seemed more intrigued by the King's whooping and grasping antics than frightened. After Gaborn tied the King securely into his saddle, Sylvarresta became more interested in petting the mount and kissing its neck than in trying to unhorse himself.

  Raj Ahten bent over the bloodstained ground, sniffing Gaborn's scent in the birch grove. On the ridge above stood his counselors and two guards, illuminated by the noon sun.

  But here in the shaded forest, Raj Ahten searched alone, as only he could.

  "That's the spot," one of his captains called.