Wizardborn, p.1
Wizardborn, page 1
THE TOWERING THIRD BOOK OF
THE IMMENSELY POPULAR FARLAND EPIC,
THE RUNELORDS
Certain works of fantasy are immediately recognizable as monuments, towering above the rest of the category. Authors of those works, such as Stephen R. Donaldson, J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind, come immediately to mind. Now add David Farland to that list, whose epic fantasy series began with The Runelords.
PRAISE FOR DAVID FARLAND’S EPIC SERIES:
“In Brotherhood of the Wolf, David Farland continues the intriguing premise he established in The Runelords, but with more intensity in every way … Clearly, this is becoming a masterwork of history-spanning fantasy.”
—Kevin J. Anderson,
co-author of Dune: House Atreides
“The Runelords is a first rate tale, an epic fantasy that more than delivers on its promise. Read it soon and treat yourself to an adventure you won’t forget.”
—Terry Brooks
“The Runelords heralds the arrival of a serious contender for the Jordan crown. This book is full of magic and myth, valor, treachery and bravery; all wrapped around a masterful epic adventure. This massive tale is woven together with the skill of a superior storyteller, making it the start of a continuing story that will thrill readers for years to come.”
—Michael Stackpole
“The fast-paced action in this fantasy novel is reminiscent of the Margaret Weis/Tracy Hickman series titles and will appeal to DragonLance fans. Farland creates a fresh and unique world that emphasizes the complex issues of humanity, loyalty, and sacrifice. This epic novel should also appeal to Terry Goodkind readers and is highly recommended for all fans of fantasy.”
—Kliatt on Brotherhood of the Wolf
“[A] powerful look at a fascinating world… Once again, an incredible cast of characters inhabits a complex, multi-layered fantasy. There are gory battles, deeds of heroism and self-sacrifice, thwarted love and misunderstandings, and a final tragic confrontation between Gaborn and Raj Ahten. Superior world-building results in another compelling, suspenseful work of fantasy.”
—Voice of Youth Advocates
on Brotherhood of the Wolf
“[Farland] explores the very nature of virtue and finds disturbing contradictions at the heart of every moral question. Good men and women find themselves serving evil for good reasons; people who long served evil waken and discover their honor. Love can be noble and self-sacrificing; it can be lusty and filled with pleasure. When I reached the end of this first volume, The Runelords, and saw grace arise from a devastating battlefield where too many great hearts lay dead, Farland had earned the tears that came to my eyes. It was not sentiment but epiphany.”
—Orson Scott Card,
author of Ender’s Game
WIZARDBORN
TOR BOOKS BY DAVID FARLAND
The Runelords
Brotherhood of the Wolf
Wizardborn
The Lair of Bones
Sons of the Oak
Worldbinder
WIZARDBORN
DAVID FARLAND
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WIZARDBORN
Copyright © 2001 by David Farland
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by David G. Hartwell
Maps by Mark Stein Studios
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8125-7070-0
ISBN-10: 0-8125-7070-7
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-048896
First Edition: April 2001
First Mass Market Edition: September 2002
Printed in the United States of America
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BOOK 9
DAY 2 IN THE MONTH OF LEAVES
THE CALM BETWEEN THE STORMS
PROLOGUE
* * *
King Croener of Toom bought dung for his fields
to make the grass grow deeper.
But found one day that warlords in gray
would sell their sons far cheaper.
—Nursery rhyme alluding to
King Croenert, who hired
cheap mercenaries from
Internook to attack Lonnock
In South Crowthen, King Anders had been entertaining guests all night. Among them were a dozen fierce old warlords from Internook with their sealskin capes and horned helms. They’d sailed on ships painted like gray serpents, and the smell of sea salt clung to their beards. Their silver-gold hair was braided; the wind had burned their faces raw.
Any lord but Anders would have sought to buy their loyalty. The warlords of Internook were notoriously cheap. But Anders offered no money. He merely filled them with strong drink and tales of the treachery of Gaborn Val Orden. By midnight they were pounding the wooden tables with their silver mugs and shouting for the boy’s head. To celebrate their decision, they killed a hog and dyed their braids in blood, then painted their faces with streaks of green, yellow, and blue. They’d take no pay for their services other than the spoils of war.
Thus Anders bought half a million berserkers for less than a steel eagle’s worth of strong ale and a butchered sow.
Beside them the Lady Vars, counselor to the queen of Ashoven, watched how Anders worked the warlords of Internook with a reticent smile. She refused to touch even so much as a drop of his best wine. She was a stately woman, beautiful and cunning, with flashing gray eyes the color of slate.
As he urged the warlords to dispatch their ships to the Courts of Tide, the lady’s lips drew tight. Though she tried to appear neutral, King Anders knew she stood against him. Too bad for her.
When the warlords were deep in their cups, she excused herself from the dining hall and fled to the docks, no doubt feeling lucky to escape his realm with her life.
But a storm was brewing in the northern sea, Anders knew. He went out into the night as Lady Vars sneaked away. From the door Anders could hear the wind singing over the whitecaps miles away, could smell ice in the salt air.
The beast within Anders stirred at the smell. It circled in his breast like a restless dog. It suggested a small spell that would insure that wind would fill the sails of the counselor’s ship, and urge it onto the rocks. Ashoven’s queen would no doubt find the wreckage on her own shores. She’d mourn her faithful servant’s demise, never knowing what warning she might have borne. Perhaps the next counselor Ashoven sent would be more malleable.
Anders stood for a long moment in the doorway of his keep, listening to the receding hooves of Lady Vars’s horse as it clattered over the cobblestone streets of the King’s Way. Thick clouds above sealed out the starlight, and the fires in the great hall cast a ruddy glow over the cold ground that seemed to strain to reach beyond the courtyard. Somewhere down in the city below, a dog began howling. Soon, a dozen others joined their voices with its keen wail.
He whispered the spell that would end the lady’s life, and sauntered back to the Great Hall.
A one-eyed warlord named Olmarg watched him knowingly as he returned. Olmarg stood at the table, leaning over the roast pig. He cut an ear off, chewed as he said in his thick accent, “She bolted on us.”
“That she did,” Anders admitted. Several other lords looked up through bleary eyes, too far gone into their cups to bother speaking.
“Knew she would,” Olmarg said. “The ladies of Ashoven have no taste for wine or war. Now that she’s gone, we won’t have to bridle our tongues.”
Anders smiled. Moments ago he’d have thought the man too drunk to think clearly. “Agreed.”
Olmarg said, “Our land is a cold one, and in the long winters our young men have naught to do but huddle in the keeps under the furs, warming the wenches. For as long as our old ones remember, we’ve sold our sons to the highest bidder. We need this war. We need the plunder. More than that, we need lands in the south. And there’s none better to be had than Mystarria. Do you really think we can hold it?”
“With ease,” Anders assured him. “Gaborn’s forces are in disarray. There is far more than just the reavers for them to worry about. When Raj Ahten destroyed the Blue Tower, he killed the vast majority of Gaborn’s Dedicates. Though there be many lords in Mystarria, few of them are Runelords.”
He let those last words settle in. Mystarria was the wealthiest land in all of Rofehavan. For centuries it had been well protected from attack—not because its castles were unassailable, but because of the number and power of its Runelords. With their wealth, the kings of Mystarria bought forcibles—magical branding irons—made from rare blood metal. They used those forcibles to draw attributes such as strength and wit from their subjects.
Now, without Runelords to protect it, the kingdom of Mystarria would not be able to stand for long.
“What’s more,” Anders continued, “to your advantage the vast majority of Gaborn’s troops have marched west to drive Raj Ahten from Mystarria’s borders. They ll have a tough job of it, for Raj Ahten has leveled several castles, and his men hold the strongest that remain. Gaborn will have to spend his men to dislodge Raj Ahten. With any luck the two are already at one another’s throats. That leaves Gaborn open to attack. His coastline is his soft underbelly.”
“Soft, maybe,” Olmarg said, “but soft enough? Mystarria’s men outnumber mine twenty to one. Even with your help—”
“Not mine alone,” Anders assured him. “Beldinook will sweep down from the north, joining us.”
“Beldinook?” Olmarg asked, as if he could not have hoped for such a boon. Beldinook was the second-largest kingdom in all of Rofehavan. “You think old King Lowicker will bestir himself?”
“Lowicker is dead,” Anders said with finality.
At that, several warlords gasped. “How?” “When?” One fellow downed a mug in the old king’s honor.
“I got word only hours ago,” Anders said. “Lowicker was murdered today by Gaborn’s own hand. His fat daughter is a surly creature. Certainly she will demand vengeance.”
“Poor girl,” Olmarg said. “I have a grandson who is not particular about his women. Perhaps I should send him to court her.”
“I was thinking of sending my own son.” Anders grinned.
Olmarg lifted a mug of ale in salute. “May the better man win.”
At that, Anders’s wife got up from her seat at the dinner table and shot Anders a glare. She’d been so quiet the past hour, he’d all but forgotten her. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “I can see that you gentlemen will be up all night trying to figure out how to carve up the world.” She lifted the skirts of her gown and walked stiffly upstairs to the tower loft.
There was a long silence. A burning log shifted in the hearth as it steadily crumbled to ash.
“Carve up the world…” Olmarg intoned. “I like the sound of that!” The unabashed greed that shone from his single eye gave Anders pause. There was a hardness to his jaw that Anders found chilling. Olmarg was a man without compunction. “And Gaborn is still a pup. It will take little to strike off his head. If I can take a few key cities quickly—dispatch his remaining Dedicates … Gaborn would never be able to retaliate.”
Anders smiled. Olmarg saw things more clearly with one eye than most could with two. The world was turning upside down. It was true that Gaborn’s forces vastly outnumbered them, but without Runelords to lead those forces …
“Carving up the world should not be so hard to do,” Anders said. “I want very little of it. I’ll take Heredon.” Olmarg raised a single white brow. Heredon was no small bit of land, but Olmarg would have no use for it. “Lowicker’s daughter will want western Mystarria, along with her vengeance. You’ll want the coast—”
“Everything within two hundred miles of shore,” Olmarg said sternly.
“A hundred and fifty,” Anders suggested. “We’ll want to leave something for the others.”
“Others?”
“I’ve received missives from Alnick, Eyremoth, and Toom. Dignitaries should be arriving shortly.”
“A hundred and fifty,” Olmarg agreed. But he added thoughtfully, “On the other hand, what if Gaborn is indeed the Earth King? Could we stand against him? Dare we stand against him?”
Anders laughed, a sound that reverberated through the quiet room and made the hounds sleeping before the hearth look up in anticipation. “He’s nothing but a fraud.”
But Anders tried to sound more self-assured than he felt. The beast hidden within him lent him special powers. Anders could hear voices carried on the wind from far off. He could smell scents from miles away. But even the wind took time to travel.
He wished that he knew how Gaborn’s battle with Raj Ahten had ended. But that news would not come until later. At Anders’s assertion, Olmarg sliced off the pig’s other ear, and they celebrated.
With these affairs of state in hand, Anders climbed to the towers of his castle early in the night, found his wife brushing her hair in the bedchamber.
Her back was stiff with anger. As he crossed the room, she followed him with her eyes, raking her brush through her hair as if she were trying to rid it of burrs.
“You seem upset,” Anders said casually. He knew the source of her anger, sought to divert her attention. “You should be overjoyed. The news was good today. I have done little but worry about the reavers rumored to be in North Crowthen, and now we hear that my cousin has driven them back.”
“A lucky shot with a ballista killed their fell mage,” his wife groused, “and the sorceresses beneath her harvested her brain. There is nothing to rejoice about. They’ll return in greater numbers.”
“Yes,” Anders said, as if to put a bright face on it. “But next time, my cousin will be better prepared for them.”
His wife did not speak for a long moment. He let the tension build, until the words broke from her. “Why do you lower yourself like this? We should have no dealings with barbarians from Internook. They stink of filth and whale blubber. And those tales you told—”
“Were all true,” King Anders countered.
“True?” she demanded. “You accused Gaborn Val Orden of murdering King Lowicker?”
“Lowicker defied Gaborn today, denied him passage through Beldinook, just as I said. For that, Gaborn slaughtered him as a man would slaughter a steer.”
“How do you know this? There have been no couriers!” she shouted. “There could not have been: I’d have seen them.”
Years of neglecting his physical needs had left Anders thin and starved-looking, a rag of a man. He drew himself up, trying to appear authoritative. “I received the message privately.” He did not want to argue the point. His wife knew full well that she had been at the table with him all afternoon. Had even a private messenger arrived, she’d have seen him.
Her mouth twisted in anger. He could tell that she was about to rail at him. He silently gathered a spell, reached out and touched her lips with his forefinger. “Shhh …” he said. “A message did come by word of mouth only. No doubt we will hear more details by morning.”
A confused expression slowly spread across her face. She said no more. He expected that she would be incapable of gathering her thoughts enough to speak for an hour, at least.
He opened the door to the balcony, stepped out. The stars blazed above the dark rooftops of the city. The night watchmen walked along the castle walls just below his keep. A cool wind whipped about, racing south. In the distance, he heard the shriek of a burrow owl. Otherwise the city was dead.
King Anders lifted his face, felt the wind glide through his hair, and basked in the sensation. In his breast, the beast stirred. He knew what the beast wanted. Anders whispered, “Kill Gaborn’s queen, lest her son become greater even than his father.”
He blew out softly, so that the sound of his words might drift to far lands, adding a little more force to the rising storm.
1
TONGUES OF LIGHTNING
Truth is stronger than many armies, and the wicked shall fall before it.
—A proverb of the Ah’kellah
Night had fallen in earnest while the Brotherhood of the Wolf rode south, but when the warriors reached Carris there was light to see by. An inferno blazed in a stone tower, its roof and inner chambers incandescent, as if it were a giant torch. Watch fires licked the city walls.
Lightning split the night on the southern horizon, like the flickering tongue of a serpent that spoke words of thunder.
The riders let their horses race the last two miles, harnesses and armor jangling. Of the forty lords in the retinue, only three had brought lances. They rode point, lest they should come upon a reaver in the darkness.
Ash mingled with rain so that mud pummeled them from the sky with the weight of mercury. It oozed through Myrrima’s cloak.
As the riders crested the hill above the Barrens Wall, the men around Myrrima gasped in amazement. “See there!” one cried. He pointed to the yawning pit from which the world worm had risen. It looked like a small volcano—a cone two hundred yards across and three hundred high. Steam billowed from its crown.
Only fires lit the scene. Yet with the endowments of sight, smell, and hearing that Myrrima had recently taken, everything seemed preternaturally clear.
