Wizardborn, p.4
Wizardborn, page 4
The horses made toward a pair of hills that stood like sentinels. The open fields gave way to a grove of majestic beech trees whose limbs soared high overhead.
As they reached the hills, Gaborn rounded a bend. An overturned cart blocked the highway. At the margin of the road, six swarthy figures huddled around a small fire, warming themselves in the cool night.
They leapt up as he approached. All six men were abnormally short, almost dwarfish. They bore an odd array of weapons—the spoke from a wagon wheel, a cleaver, a reaping hook, two axes for chopping wood, and a makeshift spear. They wore leather work aprons instead of armor. Their leader had a grizzled beard and eyebrows like woolly black caterpillars. “Hold,” he shouted. “Hold where you are. There’s a hundred archers in them trees. Make any false move, and you’ll be leaking like a winepress.”
It took Gaborn a moment to realize that all six “men” were not men at all. Most were boys in their teens—brothers by the look of them. Like their father, they were so short as to be dwarfish. They had their father’s curly hair and strangely blunt nose. Yet they couldn’t see beyond the light of their campfire; their threat was laughable.
“A hundred archers?” Gaborn asked as Iome and the others drew up at his back. “I’d think you could turn your king into a pincushion with half as many.” He rode into the firelight.
The six men dropped to their knees, gaping at the lords before them. “We saw your lordship riding south this morning!” one shouted. “We thought looters might head this way. It’s our homes, you see.”
“And we heard the earth groan, and saw the cloud rise up over Carris!” another added.
“Is it true?” a young man asked. “Are you really the Earth King?” At that, all of the young men knelt and watched Gaborn expectantly.
Am I the Earth King? he wondered. How am I to answer that question now?
He knew what they wanted. Six small men without an endowment between them, come to hold the road against Raj Ahten’s Invincibles. He’d seldom heard of such foolery—or such valor. They wanted his protection. They wanted him to Choose them.
He’d have done so if he could. In the past weeks, he’d had time to reflect on what he valued in mankind. His Days said that he valued men of insight, while others valued men of strength and cunning.
But Gaborn saw now that he valued most those who loved and lived well. He valued men of sound conscience and unwavering resolve, men who dared stand against the darkness when hope was slim. He felt honored to be in the presence of these good common folk.
“I’m no Earth King,” Gaborn admitted. “I can’t Choose you.”
The lads could not hide their disappointment, not by any act of will—even in the shadows thrown by the campfire. They let out hopeful breaths, and each of them seemed to collapse just a bit.
“Ah, well,” the father mused, “not the Earth King maybe, but you’re our king. Welcome to Balington, Milord.”
“Thank you,” Gaborn said.
He spurred his mount ahead in the darkness, past the men and on beneath the beech trees. His friends rode behind. Silence followed at their backs. The night was growing cold. Warm air escaped his nostrils like fog.
He found himself breathing hard, afraid that at any moment a wracking sob would escape.
Another mile down the road, where soft hills flowed together, he reined in his horse, and the others rode up behind. He’d had enough.
“It’s time,” Gaborn said to the small group. “I must speak with the Earth.”
“You’ll try so soon?” Binnesman asked. “Are you certain? The Earth withdrew its powers from you only two hours ago. You understand that the chances of a favorable response are slim?”
“I am certain,” Gaborn said.
There are ceremonies that wizards perform that common men do not attend. Gaborn looked back at his followers. “Jureem, you’ll care for the horses. Erin, Celinor, stay with him. The rest, come with me.”
He dismounted. Clouds were rushing in from the south, and only faint, broken starlight shone overhead.
Iome swung from her mount and took his hand hesitantly. “Are you sure you want me there?”
“Yes,” Gaborn said. “I’m sure.”
Binnesman took his staff and led the way, his wylde in tow. He ushered them up a narrow defile, following a stony path made by goats and cattle.
“One who approaches the Powers,” Binnesman counseled as they climbed the trail, “one who seeks a boon, must do so in the proper frame of mind. It is not enough to merely seek a blessing. You must be pure of heart and single-minded in your purpose. You must set aside your anger at Raj Ahten, your fears for the future, and your selfish desires.”
“I’m trying,” Gaborn said. “The Earth and I both want the same thing. We want to save my people.”
“If you could sublimate your desires wholly,” Binnesman said, “you would be the most powerful wizard that this world has ever known. You would sense the Earth’s needs and become a perfect tool for fulfilling them. Its protective powers would flow to you without restraint. But you have rejected the Earth’s needs on multiple counts. The Earth bade you to save a seed of mankind, yet you seek to save them all—even those like Raj Ahten that you know are unworthy.”
“I’m sorry!” Gaborn whispered. But even as he did, he wondered, Who is worthy to live? Even if I regain my powers, who am I to decide?
“Far more serious than this first offense was the second. You were granted the ability to warn your charges of danger. But you tried to corrupt it, to turn the powers of preservation into a weapon.”
“Raj Ahten was attacking my men,” Gaborn objected.
“You should never have Chosen that one,” Binnesman said, “no matter how great you thought the need. I warned you against it. But once you Chose him, you should not have sought to turn your powers against him. Your deed is the very root and essence of defilement.”
“Is there no hope?” Gaborn asked. “Is that what you are telling me?”
Binnesman turned, starlight reflecting from his eyes, and planted his staff in the ground. He was huffing after the climb.
“Of course there’s hope,” he said firmly. “There is always hope. A man who lacks hope is a man who lacks wisdom.”
“But I’ve done great wrongs,” Gaborn said. “I never should have relied on my own strength. I see that now.”
“Hmmm…” Binnesman said, with an appraising look. “You see it, but have you truly learned? Do you really trust the Earth to protect you, or do you think like a Runelord—do you trust in your endowments?”
Gaborn answered slowly. “I didn’t take endowments for myself, but to better serve my people. I cannot bemoan the choice now. My endowments might still serve mankind.”
“Humph,” Binnesman said. He led them to a small clearing and scrutinized Gaborn from beneath his bushy brows. His eyes seemed to Gaborn to be cold pebbles.
Around him, the hills gave rise to dry grasses and a little oak brush. Stones riddled the ground, but the soil smelled rich, delicious. It was the kind of place where Gaborn would have expected to hear the songs of crickets, or mice scurrying in the leaves, or the cries of night owls. But only a dull cold wind sighed over the hills.
Binnesman grumbled, “This will do.”
The Earth Warden knelt and spat on the ground. “With this libation from my own body, I give you drink, O Master,” Binnesman said. “We seek your help in the hour of our need.” He nodded toward Gaborn and the others. Each spat in turn.
Binnesman raised his staff, whirled it overhead.
“Hail, Mother.
Hail, Protector.
The Tree of Life shades our home,
Come, Maker.
Come, Destroyer.
Come make us your own.”
He touched the ground with his staff and said softly, “Open.”
A tearing sound arose as the roots of dry grass split apart. A slit appeared, spilling dark soil into mounds on each side of a pit.
Gaborn stared into the shallow grave. The rich ground was full of small white pebbles.
Gaborn let go of Iome’s hand and began to disrobe. His eyes flicked toward the green woman to see her reaction, but the wylde, a warrior created by Binnesman from stones and wood, seemed unconcerned with notions of modesty, incurious about Gaborn’s anatomy.
He gazed about, filled with anticipation. In Binnesman’s garden the Earth had taken physical form, had come to speak to him in person.
But the hills here were bare, and he saw no shadowy figures lurking on their slopes.
With his clothes off, Gaborn climbed down into the soil. He tensed at the touch of the cold ground, but crossed his hands over his chest, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He whispered, “Cover me.”
He lay expectantly for a moment, but nothing happened. The Earth did not fulfill even this small request.
“Cover him,” Binnesman said softly.
Iome felt unsure why Gaborn had asked her to come. She had no powers, could not help summon the Earth Spirit that he sought. She could give him only one thing: comfort.
He needed it sorely. She didn’t know how to help him greet the future. They still faced a vast array of enemies: Raj Ahten might still badger him from the west, Lowicker’s daughter and King Anders from the north. She’d encountered an assassin from Inkarra, while reavers boiled from the ground beneath their feet.
If we are all to die, Iome decided, then at least we should pass with dignity. She could give Gaborn that much.
But she feared that others would not.
She silently begged the Earth, “Please, answer us.”
Soil coursed over Gaborn in a flow. Cool dirt intruded everywhere—beneath his fingernails, weighing between his toes, heavy on his chest, pressing against his lips and eyelids.
For several long seconds, he held his breath. As he did, he sent forth his thoughts, his longings.
“Forgive me. Forgive. I will not abuse the power you’ve loaned me again.”
He stretched out with his mind, listening for an answer. Most often the Earth spoke with the voices of mice or with the cry of a wild swan or with the sound of a twig snapping in the forest. But on rare occasions it spoke as if in the tongues of men.
“Forgive me,” Gaborn whispered. “I’ll bend to your will. Let me save the seeds of mankind. I ask no more of you. Let me be your servant again.”
He heard no answer.
He imagined the future as it might unfold before him if he did not regain his powers. He envisioned mankind running from reavers, holding out in wooded hills or hiding in caves, fighting as best they could.
He pictured himself using his one remaining power, his ability to recognize danger, to save those within range of his voice.
But in time he would fail. Perhaps he would end up alone, the last man on Earth, his one final gift seen for what it had become: a curse.
He held his breath until his lungs burned and his muscles ached.
Last night as he lay in the grave, the Earth had taken from him the need to breathe, had allowed him to relax every muscle, to slumber in perfect repose.
Tonight… he recalled the words that the Earth Spirit had first spoken to him. “Once there were Toth upon the land. Once there were duskins… At the end of this dark time, mankind, too, may become only a memory.”
The ground trembled faintly. Iome knew that Gaborn had summoned an earthquake at Carris. She thought that this was an aftershock.
But the earth continued shaking. The leaves of trees hissed, and a few boulders rumbled down the hillside. The soil beneath Iome’s feet rattled, until Gaborn was thrust up from the dirt and suddenly sprawled on the surface.
All around, the dust began to mount in the air. Pieces of what looked like gray stone sifted up to the surface, until suddenly she realized that they were bones—the corrupted jaw of a cow, the skull of a horse, a shoulder blade that might have belonged to a wild bear. All of them rose to the surface along with Gaborn.
Gaborn desperately clawed dirt from his face, gasped for breath. He sat up, naked, spitting dust.
The rumbling stopped, and a boulder bounced downhill through the little knot of people.
Binnesman used his staff to point out the bits of bone that had risen. He frowned at them, squatted and stared. “You have your answer.”
“But what does it mean?” Gaborn asked.
Binnesman scratched his chin. “The Earth is speaking to you. What does it mean to you?”
“I’m not sure,” Gaborn said.
“Think about it,” Binnesman said. “The answer will come to you. Trust what you feel. Trust the Earth.”
Without further ado, he took his wylde back down the hillside.
Gaborn crawled about, picking up fragments of bone, staring at them as if to read some message hidden there. Iome brought him his robe, draped it over his shoulders.
“Bones in the earth…” Gaborn was muttering. “The Place of Bones beneath the earth. Search for the Place of Bones.”
Iome needed no wizard to translate for her. Surely Gaborn had to see it: the Earth had rejected him, rejected his plea. She whispered, “The land will be covered in bones.”
Gaborn stopped, clutched the skull of a dog against his chest. “No! That’s not it at all!”
Iome put her arms around him, tried to hold him and give him comfort.
Gaborn had done his best to be Earth King. He was not a cold man, not a hard man. He was no warrior. If he had been any of those things, she never would have fallen in love with him.
Yet his mistakes were likely to get them all killed.
Am I strong enough to support him in spite of that? she wondered.
“What will we do now, my love?” she asked.
Gaborn merely squatted on the ground, naked but for the cloak thrown over him. “First we must warn Skalbairn and the rest of my troops that I’ve lost my powers. After that, we will do what the Earth demands.”
3
A CONTRARY MAN
The gullible often mistake the pronouncements of cynics for true insight. Cynics will warn that all men are corrupt, and that existence is fruitless. But a wise man knows that not all men are corrupt, and that life brings joy as well as sorrow.
The cynics’ pronouncements are merely half-truths, the dark side of wisdom.
—From the journal of King Jas Laren Sylvarresta
“The problem is,” High Marshal Skalbairn said, as he and Sir Chondler rode through the night woods in pursuit of the reavers, “Gaborn loves his people too much, and Raj Ahten loves them too little.” Skalbairn had received a cryptic warning from Gaborn, who had taken refuge at Baling-ton. Both Skalbairn and Chondler were still trying to make sense of it.
Marshal Chondler replied, “Mark my words, nothing good will come of it. Men are never content to merely plant the seeds of their own destruction. They must first till and dung the ground, then nurture and water the tender sprout of it, until at last they’re ready to reap the full harvest.”
High Marshal Skalbairn guffawed at the comment. “No one would knowingly court disaster.” Chondler’s mount forged through the trees ahead of Skalbairn’s, and the marshal let a limb fly back and slap Skalbairn in the face. Obviously he did so in retribution for the rude noise.
“Ah, I’m wounded,” Skalbairn said.
“Sorry.”
“If that’s the most significant wound I take this night, 1*11 be glad for it,” Skalbairn replied.
He was preparing another attack on the reavers soon. He wanted to reach a knoll where Sir Skerret, a far-seer, had lit a signal lantern in warning, but not a single damned trail seemed to lead to that knoll. The night was still overcast; and so high up in the Brace Mountains, the misting rain was turning to snow.
“Men do court disaster in a hundred ways,” Chondler affirmed. “For example, have you ever noticed how easily a man can turn a virtue into a vice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, when I was a lad I knew a woman so charitable that everyone praised her. She baked bread for the poor, gave coins to the poor, gave her cow—and finally her house. At last she found herself begging on the streets outside of Broward, where she died one winter. Thus her virtue grew into a vice that consumed her.”
“I see,” Skalbairn said. “And you think this happens often?”
“Ah,” Chondler said. “But my story is not done: now, this very same woman had a son, who, when he saw that he had lost his inheritance, went about the countryside as a highwayman, robbing every man he chanced upon. No one could seem to catch him, and he thought himself to be a wondrously great robber, so that he was always bragging, ‘What a great highwayman I am!’ And thus he was crowing to his cohorts at the very moment that I crept near to his camp and planted an arrow through his throat.”
“Hah, good move,” Skalbairn said.
“So, like the mother we either turn our virtues into a vice, or else like the son we convince ourselves that vice is virtue. But in either case we plant the seeds of our own destruction.
“Our grand Earth King Gaborn Val Orden thinks that his love of mankind is a merit—while it serves to destroy him, and us with him. Meanwhile Raj Ahten hopes to ride us all like mules till we drop.”
“Hah,” Skalbairn chuckled. “What a circular argument!” He spoke the words as if in praise, but secretly he thought that Chondler was a contrary fellow who merely wished that he was a deep thinker.
“And we’re stuck between the bastards! Well, damn all them kings and high lords, I say. It’s every man for himself from here on out.” Sir Chondler reined in his horse and peered ahead. “I can’t see a path.”
Skalbairn had not known that the woods here in the Brace Mountains could be so murky. The pines didn’t seem to branch overhead so much as press in his face; the wind-twisted limbs sometimes tangled like yam.
After a moment, Sir Chondler blindly forged ahead. Then he pronounced, as if he had just come to a momentous decision, “I’m going to join this ‘Brotherhood of the Wolf.’ What say you?”
