Sons of the Oak r-5

by David Farland

  Abravael rubbed at his eyes, peered up warily. He hated this assignment, hated this place. The rock seemed to freeze each night by dawn and then bake in the afternoon heat. He hated his mother for sending him here. But she had insisted. She was going to war and needed someone that she could trust to guard her Dedicates; Abravael was the person in the world that she trusted most.

  It took him long seconds to realize that Oohtooroo was frightened. She peered outside, nostrils flaring, growled, then rumbled, “Bird. Big bird.”

  “It’s all right,” Abravael said. “You don’t have to worry about birds.”

  “Evil bird. Stranger rides it.”

  Abravael shot up. A stranger riding a graak?

  Abravael hastened to pull on his pants, unsure whether to grab them first or his warhammer. His mind dulled by his afternoon nap, he peered around for his boots.

  Oohtooroo growled, and Abravael heard footsteps crunching in the gravel outside.

  “Kill the stranger,” Abravael hissed.

  With a grunt like a wild boar, Oohtooroo charged out from the Dedicates’ Keep.

  In the early evening, Jaz stood guard at the Toth Queen’s Hideout.

  The mountain blocked his view to the west, but he could smell fires rising from the jungle out toward Garion’s Port, and smoke had turned the sky a hazy yellow.

  Far below, he saw something rise up out of the woods, a graak winging toward him. It had been soaring above the forest, and with the slant of the evening sun, it had been hidden in shadow. But now it climbed high enough so that the afternoon sun touched its wings, and suddenly it appeared, blazing white.

  The small rider had some heavy bags slung over the graak’s back.

  It had to be Nix, bringing back supplies. Jaz felt his stomach grumble in anticipation of food.

  For a long minute Nix winged toward him.

  Then he spotted a second graak, flying low above the trees, miles behind. The rider was too large to be a Gwardeen; instantly Jaz felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

  He knew that rider. It was Shadoath. He felt certain-not because he could see her face or recognize her outline. It was just an instinct, one that sent a shiver down his back and drew a strangled cry from his throat.

  “Shadoath is coming!” he shouted, warning the others.

  Fallion was stalking toward the cave quietly when a pair of shadows unfolded from the cliff walls above, came gliding down toward his mount.

  Strengi-saats! he realized, pulling his long knife.

  They floated toward him, thinking him to be just a child. Perhaps in the past they had killed others, taking them easily as they stood rooted to the ground in fear, or stumbled off into the brush.

  But Fallion was ready. He stood, mouth open, feigning terror, letting his hatred for the beasts lend him strength.

  He felt rage welling inside him, mindless and consuming, and the fire inside him begged for release.

  Yea, my master, he whispered, I consecrate their blood to thee. Let these be the first of my kills this day.

  As the largest one neared, Fallion lurched forward and rolled, blurring in his speed.

  He struck the throat of one great monster, raking it, and blood gushed as it roared. Fallion rolled beneath it, and the strengi-saat swiped vainly at him with its claws, then winged away, snarling in pain.

  The other strengi-saat saw what had happened, tried to veer away, and Fallion rushed toward it.

  He felt like a force of nature as he leapt into the air, twisted away from its gnashing teeth, and slammed his blade into the strengi-saat’s tympanum.

  The monster roared, but the cry cut short as Fallion’s blade pierced its brain.

  Fallion and the beast both dropped to the ground heavily, and as Fallion hit, he twisted his ankle.

  For a moment he stood above the monster as it heaved and grunted, some part of its brain still struggling for breath, while its claws raked the air.

  Fallion tested his ankle, stepping on it gingerly. He felt like a fool. Taking a fall like that could leave him with broken bones that would take weeks to heal.

  The first strengi-saat had raced off into the woods, and now was roaring.

  I left it wounded, he thought. And now it is more dangerous.

  But the roars of pain became keening cries, and Fallion knew that the monster would bleed out in time.

  I need to be more careful, he thought as he limped toward the hidden keep ahead.

  Fallion’s head was down, watching the path, when the sea ape lunged from the shadows of a tree.

  Instinctively, Fallion leapt aside, clearing the trail. The ape bolted past, teeth bared, knuckles digging into the dirt.

  Only years of training had saved Fallion.

  The ape whirled and peered at him in surprise.

  She rose up on her hind feet and waved an enormous club overhead, white spikes bristling from it.

  Shark’s teeth, Fallion realized, gazing up at the triangular teeth in the club.

  The sea ape swung it down in a great arc, seeking to smash Fallion.

  He rolled aside.

  The impact shattered the club; the sea ape peered at it in astonishment.

  Fallion had no desire to hurt the beast. He knew little about them, and knew that this ape was not acting on its own. It stupidly served its master.

  “Leave,” Fallion said slowly, “and I will let you and your master go in peace.”

  To his surprise, the ape’s eyes widened in understanding, and it stared hard at him.

  In a vague dream, Rhianna peered at Fallion. The ape’s heart pounded with bloodlust. He was not food, she knew. He was not flesh to eat. But he posed a threat. He had come to slay Abravael. She could not allow that.

  Rhianna felt torn and powerless, even as the ape watched for openings in Fallion’s defenses.

  The sea ape Oohtooroo growled and thumped her chest with her left fist-once, twice, a third time.

  “You go!” the ape cried. “Go now or die.”

  Fallion’s mouth fell open; he stood, unsure what to do or say.

  Oohtooroo watched intently as Abravael stepped out from the shadows and crept up behind Fallion.

  For his part, Fallion merely studied Oohtooroo, blade in hand, and spoke softly. “There is no need for this. I wish you no harm.”

  Fallion heard the scuff of a footfall and whirled.

  A man lunged toward him, scimitar in hand. He was fast, and even as Fallion stepped aside, the man twisted his blade, nearly slipping beneath Fallion’s guard.

  He has endowments of metabolism, Fallion realized.

  Years of training took control of Fallion’s blade. He struck with his long knife, pulling the blade up quickly and reversing its edge, in order to strike the young man’s wrist.

  Fallion slashed a deep wound, drawing blood. The wound jarred the man’s wrist, striking ganglia, causing the attacker to drop his sword.

  Fallion pushed the attack, slamming his fist into the man’s face, then laying his blade to the man’s throat. Fallion called, “Surrender!”

  The huge ape roared and charged, bounding toward Fallion, and he had no choice.

  He shoved his captive forward and the ape clumsily tried to step aside, hoping to avoid hitting her master.

  As she did, Fallion stepped forward and slashed her across the belly. Red blood flowed over white fur, and the ape roared in pain. She whirled toward him, now standing between Fallion and the wounded man.

  Fallion stared. The young man was handsome by any standard, with dark hair and a face like his mother’s. He pressed his badly bleeding wrist against his chest, peering at Fallion maliciously.

  “Truce!” the young man called. “I surrender!”

  The huge ape began wheezing, and Fallion cringed to see the damage that he’d done. Her rib cage had opened up, and he could see the pale purple of intestines and the pink tip of one lung. The ape panted, stood in shock, still keeping itself between Fallion and its beloved master.

  The you
ng man was holding his wrist as if Fallion had chopped off his arm. He was worried about a minor wound while his faithful servant died.

  “Go,” Fallion whispered. “Get out of here.” He stepped aside, giving the huge ape leeway. It just peered at him, breathing heavily, unsure what to do.

  “Come, my pet,” Abravael whispered. “We’re outmatched. Mother will be so unhappy.”

  The way that he said it, Fallion almost imagined that the young man wanted his mother’s Dedicates to die.

  No, Fallion realized, he does want them to die. It’s not my imagination. How he must hate her.

  Taking the sea ape by one hand, Abravael led the beast along the path. It glared back at Fallion, hurt and bewildered, dying, but it did not attack.

  Fallion had an uncanny sense that the battle was not over, that Abravael still had some trap for him.

  But the young man merely retreated to the shadow of a rock, then sat down, his huge sea ape beside him. Abravael smiled and nodded at Fallion, as if daring him to enter the Dedicates’ Keep.

  There are more guards inside, Fallion realized, suddenly worried. Perhaps these guards are even powerful Runelords.

  He licked his lips. His legs suddenly felt too weak to carry him farther into battle.

  My body is a tool, Fallion told himself, repeating an old mantra of the Gwardeen. It must obey.

  He stalked into the Dedicates’ Keep.

  “Run!” Jaz shouted, warning the children in the cave. “Shadoath is coming.”

  The children clamored to escape. Some grabbed weapons or sought to pick up coats, but most just rushed toward the graakerie, some of the bigger ones knocking the little ones aside.

  Jaz had no time to help.

  Grabbing Fallion’s forcibles, he raced to the rookery and freed a graak, a big male. It was tied with a rope, and Jaz fumbled as he tried to undo the knots. Finally, in a fit of panic, he drew his knife and slit the rope.

  Then, realizing that he had time to help some of the younger children out, he raced to a second reptile and cut it free, and another and another.

  The older children were quickly preparing their mounts, heaving huge saddles upon their backs, tying them down, fitting bridles.

  Jaz raced to a corner where his own tack had been laid, then bridled and saddled the nearest great reptile. After he did, he helped a young girl onto the graak, then slapped its rump. The huge reptile lunged toward the ledge and soared into the air.

  Jaz felt sick with fear and hunger, as if he would topple at any moment.

  He stood on the ledge, gasping for breath.

  Jaz looked down into the valley. Shadoath’s mount came up behind Nix’s. The girl wasn’t even aware of the danger.

  Suddenly Shadoath hurled a dagger. Bright steel flashed as it blurred toward its mark. Nix got struck full in the back and went hurtling headlong from her graak.

  The mount veered away and roared in fear, heading down into the forest.

  Shadoath kept flying toward the hideout.

  Two minutes, Jaz told himself. She can’t be more than two minutes away.

  For half a second he wondered. Could Fallion have found Shadoath’s Dedicates by now? If so, had he killed them yet? And if he had, what did that mean?

  Shadoath could be as weak as any commoner. Jaz wasn’t half the warrior that Fallion had become, but Jaz had been practicing with the blade for years.

  Dare I fight her? he wondered. If she is a commoner, she might underestimate me. I might be able to strike a killing blow.

  But Jaz was no warrior. He never had been.

  A young boy was struggling to throw a heavy saddle over a huge graak, using all of his strength.

  It gave out and the boy collapsed.

  He’ll never make it, Jaz realized with horror. He’ll never be strong enough to saddle it.

  He peered at the young children at work, their faces all whiter than ash, as was common among the Gwardeen, and the full horror of what was about to happen struck him.

  They were all struggling to escape, but the process of bridling and saddling a graak took too long.

  The forcibles, he told himself. I have to save them. They’re more important than the children.

  Valya had just helped a child with a saddle, and now she helped the child mount a graak, and slapped the beast’s rump, sending it over the cliff.

  She whirled and went to help another, a broad smile on her handsome face.

  Jaz wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to save himself. Riding a graak wasn’t easy. How would he carry both the forcibles and himself?

  He didn’t have time to answer as he raced outside.

  Another child had managed to pick up a bridle for a graak, and was trying to throw it over the head of her mount, but she was too small. Jaz finished the job as she carefully climbed onto the reptile’s neck, without a saddle, and perched there, clinging with fright.

  Jaz peered up at her. “Get out of here. Fly inland and find the fortress at Stillwater.”

  The girl nodded, and Jaz slapped the graak’s rump, yelling, “Up! Up!”

  His heart skipped a beat as the reptile hopped forward. In that moment, when the beast lunged, if the child was going to fall, this would be the time.

  The graak dropped from the sky a dozen yards, its wings unfolding gracefully, and then it caught the wind and was gone, flying away. The girl cried out in fright, but managed to hold on.

  Jaz peered down below. Shadoath was close now. No more than a minute away. Jaz didn’t have time to harness more graaks.

  Expert riders could command a graak even if it wasn’t harnessed, Jaz knew, but he wasn’t an expert rider. Such riders usually had years of experience to help them.

  Jaz had none of that.

  Weary to the core of his soul, he scrabbled up the side of the nearest graak, somehow climbing from knee, to hip, to back, and to neck by sheer will.

  Shadoath was drawing near, less than a quarter of a mile away.

  Maybe she won’t hurt me, Jaz thought. She’d treated him gently when she took him from the prison. He’d seen her then as a vision of mercy, a savior, someone to be adored.

  But she was the one who put me in irons in the first place, he told himself, and he knew that it was true. She could show kindness, but it didn’t come from the heart.

  He had only one chance. He was taking a rested mount. Shadoath’s would be tired. He could hope to outfly her.

  He looked to the side. Valya was throwing the bridle on another graak, sending off another child. She wouldn’t have time to get away herself.

  “Valya,” Jaz shouted, “come with me.” It would be dangerous for his graak to try to carry them both, he knew, but it was their only chance.

  Valya raced toward him as if she would climb on, but then she slapped his graak on the rump and shouted, “Up!”

  The graak surged, stretched its neck out, and with a little warning cry took flight. The warm evening air smote Jaz in the face and whistled through his hair, and he felt the great reptile take flight beneath him.

  Valya is staying behind, he realized. She’s giving her life for mine.

  Shadoath was racing toward him, her graak twenty yards above his. Her face shone with an ethereal beauty, despite the scars from her burns, and she sat astride her graak with the easy grace of one who had hundreds of endowments.

  I was fool to think I might be able to fight her, Jaz realized. She’s a powerful Runelord still, and there is no way that I could win.

  Jaz worried that she’d dive, have her mount claw his, knocking Jaz from his seat.

  But Valya shouted, “Mother, I’m here.”

  Shadoath turned her face up to the cave and urged her mount toward it, willing to let Jaz go.

  Jaz felt miserable inside as his graak dove toward freedom.

  There were still several children up in the cave. They were screaming now, abandoning their mounts, racing into the depths of the cave in the hopes of escaping.

  Jaz was buying his own life wi
th theirs.

  49

  THE TORCH-BEARER

  In a reign of darkness, the fallen saw a great light.

  — from “An Ode to Fallion”

  Warily, Fallion made his way into the Dedicates’ Keep, convinced that at any moment a dozen guards would ambush him.

  But as he passed the small guardroom where Abravael and the ape had slept, he found it empty of all but a cot.

  Fallion marched forward, past the bakery with its open hearth, beyond a hallway that led to some more guards’ quarters, then to the buttery and the kitchens. A pair of matronly women worked inside. They huddled away in a corner, terrified, as he passed.

  At the end of the hall, he opened a door to a darkened chamber. There he found the Dedicates.

  The room was lit by a few candles, enough so that Fallion could see everything well enough.

  The room was full of children, dozens and dozens of them. Some were toddlers, not more than a year or two. Others were Fallion’s age or older.

  Many laid upon cots, invalids. Some cried out or moaned in pain. They’d given brawn and grace, given their sight or their beauty, and could only wonder why they hurt so badly.

  Of course, Fallion realized. When Shadoath captured a city, she used the elderly, the infirm, as food for her strengi-saats. The strong ones she’d keep as workers. And their children served as Dedicates.

  It looked more like a nursery than a Dedicates’ Keep. Fallion had never seen an instance where a Runelord took endowments from children. Such a deed was horrific.

  But he understood the cunning of it.

  Fallion stood there numb, as if wounded. He dared not advance.

  He remembered Borenson sobbing in the night, and Myrrima warning Fallion, “Do not repeat our mistakes.”

  He’d heard Borenson cry out in his sleep many times over the years. Now Fallion began to understand why.

  He looked at the faces of the children, some lying fast asleep, others peering at him in terror, and searched in vain for an adult target, someone evil, someone cruel, someone worthy of death.

  He’d imagined that Shadoath’s servants would be vile, like her. He’d dreamed that their cruelty would be written plain upon their faces, and that in slaying them, he would feel secure that he’d done the world a favor.