The RuneLords

by David Farland

  But the ground held only the odor of mold and humus, desiccated leaves. Ash had rained down from the fires that incinerated the wizard's garden, fouling the scent. Of course the tang of a soldier's blood filled the air.

  The Prince had passed through the herbalist's garden, so that his natural scent lay masked under layers of rosemary, jasmine, grasses, and other rich fragrances. Raj Ahten's own men had tramped here by the dozens last night, further fouling the trail.

  The more he tasted the air, the more elusive the scent seemed.

  But none of his hunting dogs could track as well as Raj Ahten did. So the Wolf Lord knelt in the loam, sniffing tenderly, dismissing some scents, seeking for that which was Gaborn. He crawled forward, searching for a vestige of Gaborn among the trees. Perhaps the young man had brushed a vine maple, or touched the bole of an alder. If he had, his scent would cling to the spot.

  Raj Ahten found no scent near the blood, but found something nearly as interesting: the earthy musk of a young woman, a maid who worked the kitchens. Odd that none of his hunters had mentioned the scent. It might be nothing, or it might be a woman who accompanied the Prince.

  Raj Ahten suddenly stood upright, startled. A half-dozen finches in a nearby tree took flight at the movement. Raj Ahten listened to a soft wind blow through the trees. He recognized the girl's scent, had smelled it--

  This morning.

  He'd passed her on Market Street, just outside the King's Keep.

  Raj Ahten had endowments of wit from over a thousand men. He recalled every beat of his heart, remembered every word ever uttered to him. He visualized the woman now, at least the back of her head. A shapely young thing, in a hooded robe. Her long hair a deep brunette. She'd been next to a statue of gray stone. Once again, he felt an odd sensation--a peculiar muzziness of thought.

  But--no, he suddenly realized. It could not have been a statue. The thing had moved. Yet when he'd passed it, he'd had the impression of stone.

  He tried to recall the statue's face, to imagine the thing he'd passed as living flesh. But he could not see it, could not visualize it. A statue of a boy--a faceless, plain-looking lad in a dirty robe.

  They'd stood in the streets near where his pyromancer had been murdered.

  But wait, Raj Ahten had it now--the scent. He recalled their smell. Held it in his mind. Yes, it was here in the woods. And he'd smelled it at the stable. The young man Raj Ahten had seen at the stable, minutes ago.

  Raj Ahten could remember everything he'd seen in years. Now he tried to dredge up the lad's face, to see him there in the stables.

  Instead, he saw the image of a tree: a great tree in the heart of the wood at dusk, so vast that its swaying branches seemed to reach up and capture the stars.

  It was so peaceful under that tree, watching it, that Raj Ahten raised his hands, felt the warmth of the starlight touching his own hands, penetrating them.

  He longed to be that tree, swaying in the wind. Unmoved, unmovable. Nothing more than trunk and roots, reaching deep into the soil, tendrils of root tickled by the passing of countless worms. Breathing deep. The birds soaring through his limbs, nesting in the crooks of branches, pecking at grubs and mites that hid in the folds of his bark.

  Raj Ahten stood, breath suspended, among the trees of the forest, looking down on his smaller brothers, tasting the wind that meandered slowly above him and through him. All cares ceasing. All hopes and aspirations fading. A tree, so peaceful and still.

  Ah, to stand thus forever!

  Fire blossomed in his trunk.

  Raj Ahten opened his eyes. One of his flameweavers stood glaring at him, had prodded him with a hot finger.

  "Milord, what are you doing? You've been standing here for five minutes!"

  Raj Ahten drew a deep breath of surprise, looked at the trees around him, suddenly uneasy. "I...Gaborn is still here in the city," Raj Ahten said. Yet he could not describe the boy, could not see his face. He concentrated, and saw in rapid succession a stone, a lonely mountain, a gorge.

  Why can I not see his face? Raj Ahten wondered.

  Then he looked up at the trees around him, and knew. A small band of trees, narrow along the river. A finger of the Dunnwood. But powerful, nonetheless. "Set fire to this wood," he told the flameweaver.

  Raj Ahten raced for the city gates, hoping he was not too late.

  Sweat poured from Gaborn's face as he urged the horses through the lower bailey. Thousands of troops clogged the gates.

  Five hundred knights milled outside the city wall. Their warhorses wore the finest armor Sylvarresta's smiths could forge, blackened and polished. Another thousand archers stood ready near the walls with bows strung, should an army race out from the woods.

  Yet the fact that so many men had already left the castle did not ease the congestion. Thousands of soldiers did not travel completely alone--squires, cooks, armorers, tailors, bearers, fletchers, prostitutes, washwomen all thronged the streets. Raj Ahten had seven thousand soldiers in his legion, but his camp contained another thousand followers. Armorers dressed the horses in the bailey. Children darted about underfoot. Two cows had run down the Butterwalk and now tramped through the crowd.

  In the turmoil, Gaborn rode from the castle, trailing Iome's mount, her father's, and those of two Days, trying to keep his horse from kicking and biting every soldier who wore the red wolves of Raj Ahten on his shield or surcoat.

  One dark-faced sergeant grabbed the reins of Gaborn's horse, shouting, "Give me horse, boy. I take that one!"

  "Raj Ahten told me to keep the reins myself," Gaborn said. "It's for Jureem."

  The sergeant drew back his hand as if the words burned him, eyed the horse longingly.

  Gaborn rode through the press of bodies, toward the throng of soldiers gathering on the blackened grass outside Castle Sylvarresta. He held the line to the King's horse tightly, glanced back.

  The idiot king smiled at everyone, waving, his mouth wide with joy. Gaborn's own mount, with its surly nature, waded through the masses, breaking a path for the horses that followed. Iome's and King Sylvarresta's Days trailed last.

  Near the blackened gates, everyone sought to surge across the damaged drawbridge. One side had burned through from the elemental's fires, but had been hastily repaired.

  "Make way for the King's mounts! 'Ware the King's mounts!" Gaborn shouted.

  Gaborn eyed the city walls as he passed beneath the portal. Archers everywhere guarded the outer wall, but most foot soldiers had deserted their posts.

  Then, suddenly, he passed under the main arch. Gaborn did not entirely trust the ruined bridge to hold the weight of both his people and their horses. A few planks had been thrown over the rent, but they looked flimsy, so he dismounted, had Iome do the same. As for the King, he left the man mounted and cautiously walked each horse across, then entered the throng of soldiers milling about in the charred grass.

  Raj Ahten's soldiers nervously watched the hills, anxious to be on their way. The troops bunched together, as men do when fearful. The sounds of King Orden's hunting horns less than an hour before had put them in a grim mood.

  Iome crossed the bridge, and Gaborn helped her back into the saddle, then led her mount over the dirt road, holding the reins to his own horse, as if he were but a stableman delivering the animals.

  From behind him came a sudden commotion. A strong voice shouted, "You, Prince Orden!"

  Gaborn leapt a horse, with a kick spurred the beast, shouting, "Game ho!" His mount surged forward so hard that Gaborn nearly fell from the saddle.

  He'd taken his mounts from Sylvarresta's hunting stables, trusting they were trained for the chase. At his command, the horses ran like the wind. These were horses bred for the woods, strong of leg, deep of chest.

  Some quick-thinking soldier leapt in Gaborn's path, battle-axe half-drawn. "Strike!" Gaborn shouted, and his horse leapt and lashed out with a forehoof, dashing the warrior's head open with the rim of its iron shoe.

  From atop the castle wall, Raj Ah
ten cried, "Stop them! Hold them! Before they reach the woods!" His voice echoed from the hills.

  Then Gaborn reached the fields, with Iome shouting and racing beside, clutching the reins to her father's mount.

  Behind them, the pair of Days had not spurred forward. One soldier grabbed the King's Days by the hem of his robe, dragged the man down as the horse bucked. Three others joined into the task. Iome's Days, a thin woman with a straight mouth, let her horse dance around the commotion, taking the rear.

  Dozens of knights spurred their own mounts, heavy warhorses trained for combat. Gaborn did not fear them. Under the crushing weight of their own armor and that of their armored riders, the horses should fall behind. But they were still force horses, with supernatural strength and endurance.

  Gaborn glanced back, shouted for Iome to go faster. He had only a short sword-not much to fight against such men.

  On the castle walls, many archers had great bows made of steel that could shoot five hundred yards. Dozens of them nocked arrows. At such a distance, no one could fire accurately, but a lucky shot could kill as easily as a skillful one.

  His horse galloped so fluidly, he felt as if it were a creature of wind, come to life beneath him, hooves pounding a four-beat. The stallion raised his ears forward, raised his tail in contentment, grateful to be free of the stable, grateful to race over the ground like a storm.

  The woods seemed to rush toward Gaborn.

  An arrow whipped past Gaborn's neck, grazed the ear of his mount.

  Behind him, a horse screamed in pain, and Gaborn glanced back to see it stumble, an arrow in its neck. Iome's Days rode the mount, her thin mouth an O of surprise. She somersaulted over the horse's head, a black arrow in her back as she fell headlong into the charred field.

  Half a dozen bowmen had let fly, the arrows sailing toward Gaborn in a long arc. Gaborn shouted, "Right, ho!" As one, all three remaining chargers veered, dodging from beneath the arrows' trajectory.

  "Bowmen, cease fire!" Raj Ahten raged. His fool archers were going to kill his Dedicates.

  Five dozen knights raced over blackened fields, pocked with dead nomen and Frowth, toward the near hills where burned trees raised twisted limbs. If the knights did not catch the Prince before he entered the woods, Raj Ahten suspected Gaborn would find safety among King Orden's troops.

  As if to confirm Raj Ahten's suspicions, a lone war horn sounded from the woods--a high, lonely cry--from the peak of the first hill. A signal for Orden's men to charge.

  Who knew how many knights lurked there?

  Beside Raj Ahten, two flameweavers ran to the top of the wall. The hairless men leapt beside him, the heat of their bodies rising fierce as an inferno.

  Raj Ahten merely pointed. He could not see the boy's face. Even when Gaborn turned, for some reason he could not focus on the boy's face. But he knew the back, the form. "Rahjim, see the young man who is falling behind, preparing to fight? Burn him."

  A satisfied light shone from the flameweaver's dark eyes. Rahjim exhaled nervously; smoke issued from his nostrils. "Yes, O Great One."

  Rahjim drew a rune of fiery power in the air with his finger, then raised a hand high, grasped for half a second toward the sun shining high in the sky. The heavens suddenly darkened as he gathered sunlight into fibers, threads like molten silk, and brought them all twisting down in ropes of energy, to focus in his hand--until his palm filled with molten flames.

  Rahjim held the fire for a portion of a second--long enough to gather a proper focus. He threw with his might.

  Gaborn fell forward as a blast of wind and energy smashed his back, felt a sudden burning. He wondered if an arrow had hit him, realized that his surcoat was afire.

  One of Raj Ahten's knights raced his horse beside Iome, trying to grab her reins.

  Gaborn ripped the dirty, rotting cloth that covered him, tossed the blazing thing in the air just in time to watch the rag burst into flame. He fancied that only the mud on the cloak had kept him from burning in that precious half-second. The garment fell over the face of Iome's pursuer's warhorse, catching on the horse's helm. It almost looked to be a magician's trick.

  The horse whinnied in terror, stumbled, threw its rider.

  Gaborn glanced over his back. He was now hundreds of yards from the flameweaver--out of range of his most dangerous spells.

  Having missed in his first attack, the flameweaver would now show his power in fury.

  Atop the hill, on the winding road ahead, a war horn sounded for a second time, calling King Orden's men to charge. The very thought terrified Gaborn. If King Orden charged, Raj Ahten would learn just how few soldiers Gaborn's father had.

  The skies darkened a second time, but the darkness held longer. Gaborn turned, spotted the flameweaver, hands raised. A ball of flame, bright and molten as the sun, formed between his fingers.

  Gaborn pressed his face close to his mount, smelled the horse's sweat, the sweet odor of its hair.

  The road ahead twisted east, though soon it would lead south. The road was broad, full of dust in this season, kicked up by the animals of thousands of traders. But ahead it led past some blackened trees to the promising shelter of the woods beyond. That is where the war horn had sounded. But if Gaborn left the road here, kept straight, he'd reach the woods more quickly.

  Once in the woods, out of the flameweaver's sight, he'd be safer.

  "Right, ho!" he shouted, urging the horses from the road. Ahead, Iome's mount obeyed the command, and the King's followed its lead. At the sudden turn, King Sylvarresta howled in fear, clung to his steed's neck. Gaborn let his mount leap an embankment like a hare, sailing over blackened logs.

  To Gaborn's left, the ball of flame hurtled past--having expanded to the size of a small wagon even as it lost power over the distance.

  The rush of heat and light smashed into the blackened turf, exploded. Black ash and fire worried in the air.

  Then Gaborn was racing through black tree trunks, dancing between trees, using them to shield his back. Even in death, they provided some protection.

  Raj Ahten's troops surged after, men shouting curses in Southern tongues. Faces lined with rage.

  Only the fact that he now had no cloak, nothing to protect him but his skin, reminded Gaborn of Binnesman's herbs in the pouch tied about his neck.

  Rue.

  He grasped the pouch, ripped it from his neck, and waved the thing in the air. The powdered leaves floated out like a cloud.

  The effect was devastating.

  The soldiers who hit that cloud of rue began hacking. Horses whinnied in pain, faltered and fell. Men shouted. Metal clanged on ground. Gaborn glanced back.

  A dozen knights lay coughing on the blackened hillside. Others had all veered from their inexplicably fallen comrades. Most of them had deemed it wise to retreat from the insistent blowing of the war horn, for they now raced full-tilt back to Castle Sylvarresta.

  Gaborn topped a small rise, saw the dirt road from the castle winding through a narrow valley.

  Among the blackened trees near the ridge top sat one lone warrior atop an unarmored gray mare. He wore his shield on his left hand--a small round device not much larger than a platter.

  Borenson, waiting. White teeth flashed beneath his red beard as the big guard smiled a welcome to his Prince. Gaborn never had thought he'd be so happy to see the green knight of House Orden on any warrior's shield.

  Borenson raised his war horn to his lips again, sounded a charge, and raced toward Gaborn. His steed leapt the corpse of a Frowth giant, lunged downhill.

  "Archers, draw!" Borenson shouted an obvious ruse. The valley beyond held nothing but blackened trees and stones. The guard drew a long-handled battle-axe from its sheath on his saddle, waved it above his head, thundered past Gaborn to cover the Prince's retreat.

  Only one of Raj Ahten's warriors had dared cross the ridge, come rushing down.

  A huge man on a black steed--his white war lance poised, like a spear of light. Yet even in the half-second as
Gaborn reined his horse to wheel about, he glanced back.

  The knight wore blackened chain beneath a gold surcoat, with the emblem of Raj Ahten's wolves emblazoned in red. His lance, the color of ivory, had been stained with blood.

  The knight's high helm had white wings painted on it, signifying that he was no common soldier--but a captain of Raj Ahten's guard, an Invincible with no fewer than fifty endowments.

  Borenson could not equal the man.

  Yet Borenson spurred to meet the warrior head--on, his steed throwing dirt with every pounding of its hooves.

  Then Gaborn understood: his father's troops had fled, would not come to his rescue. Borenson had to kill this knight or die in the attempt, lest Raj Ahten learn the truth.

  Gaborn drew the short sword from the belt at his waist.

  The Invincible charged downhill, lance poised, holding as steady as the sun in the sky.

  Borenson raised his battle-axe high. The wise thing to do would be to time his swing, parry the lance before its tip speared his mail.

  But these were force warriors, and Gaborn did not know what kinds of strengths or talents the Invincible might have. Gaborn was not prepared for their tactics.

  Just as it appeared Borenson would be hit, he called "Clear!" His horse leapt and kicked.

  The Invincible buried his lance in the horse's neck. Only then did Gaborn see that this was a "pinned lance"--a lance held to the warrior's gauntlets with a metal pin. The pins helped when battling armored opponents, for it insured that the knight would not lose his grip when the lance hit metal.

  Unfortunately, one could not release the lance without removing the heavy steel cotter pins that held it to his gauntlet. Now as the lance buried itself in the horse's flesh and bone, such was the weight of the horse that the knight's arm wrenched up and back, then snapped, bones shattering even as his lance cracked under tremendous pressure.

  The Invincible howled in rage. His worthless right arm remained pinned to a broken lance.

  He grabbed for his mace with his left hand as Borenson launched from his own mount, swinging his wicked axe so hard that it pierced the Invincible's mail shirt, drove through his leather underjerkin, and buried its head in the hollow beneath the Invincible's throat.