Brotherhood of the Wolf Part 31

Numb, she realized that she had killed the Darkling Glory's body, but had not reckoned with the elemental trapped within.

A great roiling fist of wind slammed into her, driving her back several paces and knocking the breath out of her. Her ribs ached as if she'd been hammered with a truncheon. She lost her footing, and the wind took her, sent her skittering back along the paving stones. It screamed about her with a thousand voices, like the wails of disembodied spirits.

The blast howled through the bailey, transformed itself into a tornado, carrying the body of the Darkling Glory up and up. The base of the tornado tore the cobblestones from the pavement, swirled them up into the mix with a sound like an earthquake. Lightning flashed at the tornado's crown, arcing into the heavens. The roiling ma.s.s of air whirled violently once and then slammed to the north. The walls of the Dedicates' Keep rumbled and shattered. Huge boulders heaved into the air.

Three bolts of lightning struck beside Myrrima in rapid succession. The tornado veered toward her. She felt fingers of air tug at her, inviting her into the heart of the maelstrom. Binnesman was shouting, and Myrrima twisted and scrabbled to grab some paving stones.

The wind lifted her off the ground, held her for a heartbeat as if pondering what best to do with her.

And then Myrrima saw Binnesman. The old wizard struggled through the wind, as it ripped at his hair and pummeled his robes. He thrust the end of his staff toward her, and frantically Myrrima grabbed it, felt its gnarled and polished wood in her grasp. A great boulder came bouncing down from the Dedicates' Keep, two tons of stone rolling toward them as if hurled with unerring precision.

Binnesman raised his hand, warding it away, and the boulder's course suddenly shifted left, narrowly missing them.

"I claim you for the Earth! Live now, live for the Earth." Binnesman shouted.

The wind ripped at Myrrima with powerful fingers, tried to pull her away, and Myrrima clung to the staff with all her might.

Binnesman hurled a handful of leaves from his pocked sent them scattering. The wind took them, sent them whirling. "Begone, fiend!" Binnesman shouted. "She is mine!"

Suddenly the wind stilled nearby, and the great tornado roared. It ripped stones from the ruined Dedicate's Keep, sent them roaring into the air, then let them rain down uselessly all around Binnesman and Myrrima.

A dozen bolts of lightning slashed the air nearby, leaving Myrrima blinded by the fight.

Then the elemental was gone, screaming north through the King's tombs, uprooting cherry trees that had stood for a hundred years. It leapt down cliffs to the north, and raced then among the fields, meandering almost aimlessly as it knocked down cottages, smashed carts, ripped apart hayc.o.c.ks, tore through fences, and gouged a black scar in the earth.

For long minutes, bits of hay and dust still hung heavy in the air. But what was left of the Darkling Glory had departed.

Myrrima sat on the ground, quivering, mortified. Her ribs ached. Dozens of small abrasions covered her legs and hands where bits of stone had pummeled her.

She felt astonished to even be alive.

Binnesman held her, drawing her close, seeking to comfort her.

She began trembling uncontrollably as the terror and blood l.u.s.t left her. Her heart pounded in her ears so hard, she could hardly hear, couldn't quite make sense of Binnesman's words.

"That, milady, should not have been possible!" he said in astonishment. "No common mortal could slay a Glory! And then to live--to live through it?"

"What? What do you mean?" she asked.

But he merely held her for a moment longer and said in a tone of infinite wonder, "You're wet. You're wet, every bit of you!"

She leaned against him for support. Tears filled her eyes. She stared over his shoulder at the pile of stones where the King's Keep had fallen. There was a huge rent there now, a creva.s.se from which the Darkling Glory had escaped.

Iome will be down there, Myrrima realized. I should look for her body, give it a proper burial.

But even as the thought lodged in her mind, she saw movement at the edge of the pit.

Iome, covered in dust, stuck her head up from the wreckage, gazing about curiously. The clubfooted boy poked his head out after her.

"We hid in your room," Iome said as she related her tale to Binnesman. "The earth power was greatest there, and the Darkling Glory didn't want to draw near. When the keep collapsed, the boy and I got trapped in the corner, beneath some beams."

"We was lucky," the clubfooted boy shouted. He looked as if he'd play the fool in his cloth-of-gold coat. "The Queen has got luck!"

"No, it wasn't luck," Iome said, shaking her head in warning. "I felt Gaborn warn me, telling me to hide. I pushed us toward that corner because it felt safe, and when the roof collapsed, the beams were strong enough to shelter us."

"You can thank the King for your life, when next you see him," Binnesman said Iome glanced off toward. the valley, where the tornado wandered to the east. She shuddered before continuing. "Afterward, when the Darkling Glory broke out, we simply crawled through the rubble until we got free. The wind was howling so! I didn't dare climb up until I heard you and Myrrima talking, and knew it was safe."

Myrrima looked at the pile of rubble where the Darkling Glory had been sealed beneath the earth. It seemed impossible for any human inside that building to have survived when it collapsed.

Binnesman let Myrrima go. She still trembled, but not so badly as before.

"I still don't understand." Binnesman shook his head in wonder. "No common arrow should have been able to pierce that beast"

He retrieved one of Myrrima's arrows from the ground, and examined it closely. He studied the narrow blade of cold iron at the bodkin's tip. He felt the white goose feathers on the arrow's fetching.

He c.o.c.ked a brow at Myrrima. His voice was thick with suspicion. "It's wet."

"I fell in the moat," Myrrima explained Binnesman smiled as if perceiving something important.

"Of course. Air is an element of instability. But Water counters its unstable nature. Like Earth, Water can also be a counter to air. A shaft made of Earth alone could not pierce the Darkling Glory, but one of Earth and Water maybe....And, of course, I was draining the Glory's power at the time."

It sounded suspiciously to Myrrima as if the wizard were trying to take credit for her kill, when she felt quite certain that she was the one who had saved his life. Binnesman did not sound persuaded by his own conjecture as to the cause of the monster's death.

Moments later, Jureem came galloping up to the keep, leading Myrrima's mare. The horses' hooves clattered against the stone.

Her mount had a white burn on its rump where the lightning bolt had struck it. Myrrima was amazed the horse could even walk. But it was a force horse, she reminded herself, with endowments of stamina, and therefore could endure much more than a common mount.

Jureem leapt from his charger and set down the baskets of puppies. The dogs yelped with excitement, and one pup pushed its nose through the lid of the basket and leapt out, raced to Myrrima's side.

She reached down and petted it absently.

Jureem glanced from person to person, as if making sure everyone had survived.

Iome laughed nervously and said to Myrrima, "Your husband slew a reaver mage and brought home its head yesterday, and today, you must best him. What trophy will you gather next?"

"I can think of only one better," Myrrima said. "Raj Ahten's head."

In point of fact, Myrrima could not feel easy about her kill. The air around them hung heavy and smelled of a storm. There was no corpse to the Darkling Glory, nothing that could prove she'd killed him.

She felt almost as if he were still here, hovering close, hanging on her every word.

Binnesman himself was glancing about furtively, gauging the air. It smelled thick with dust and lightning.

"He is dead, isn't hem" Myrrima asked. "It is over?"

Binnesman gazed at her, held his tongue as he considered his answer. "A Glory is not killed so easily," he warned. "He is disembodied now, diminished. But he is not dead, and he is still capable of much evil."

Myrrima. looked out over the valley, to where the tornado now whirled and seethed two miles off. "But...he can't touch us now, can he?"

Binnesman answered warily. "I've driven him away Iome stared off into the distance, breathing hard. "So he will lose form, the way that a flameweaver's elemental does"

Binnesman gripped his staff, stared thoughtfully at the heaving maelstrom. The tornado moved erratically, striking in one direction, turning in another. Like a child in the throes of a tantrum.

"Not exactly," Binnesman said heavily. "He will lose form, but I think he will not dissipate quickly, not like an elemental of flame. Nor do I think he will leave us alone."

Down below, in the city, the city guards all began to come out of hiding, gazing nervously uphill to the ruined keep. She saw four of them standing down at the gate.

In all of the commotion, Myrrima had dropped her bow, and now she saw it lying across the bailey. She picked her way toward it among fallen stones and rubble. The Darkling Glory had so devastated this part of the castle that she was astounded to be alive.

Suddenly on the ground before her, she saw a part of the Darkling Glory, a severed hand with three claw like fingers, their dusky nails as sharp as talons. Blood leaked from the stump at its end.

To Myrrima's horror, the hand was moving, grasping the air rhythmically.

She stomped on it and kicked the horrid thing away. It lay on the ground and groped at the paving stones, lumbered about like an enormous spider. Her pup ran after it, barking and snarling even louder.

Myrrima picked up her bow, returned to where the others stood. Jureem eyed the moving hand nervously, while Iome kept staring at the pup.

It snarled savagely, took a nip at the vile hand.

"That pup wants to protect you," Iome said. "It's ready to give you an endowment."

It surprised Myrrima that the pup would be ready to give an endowment so soon, although Duke Groverman had said pups of this breed were quick to bond to their masters.

Myrrima dared hope for a boon. She had slain the Darkling Glory, slain him while good men like Sir Donnor and the city guards had failed.

She knelt to face Iome, presented her bow at the Queen's feet. She had hoped to be considered worthy of becoming a warrior, had hoped to earn the right to use the King's forcibles. The cost of taking endowments was tremendous. And with blood metal so scarce these days, she knew it would be impossible to gain the use of forcibles any other way.

"Your Highness," Myrrima said. "I come before you to swear my troth. I offer my bow and my life to you, and beg for the honor to bear weapons in your service."

Iome stood a moment, as if unsure what to do.

"She has a warrior's heart," Binnesman said, "and more. She fought on while stouter men hid."

Iome nodded her head; the decision was made. She glanced about for a sword of her own. Jureem drew a curved dagger from its sheath, and handed the ruby-encrusted blade to Iome.

Iome touched Myrrima's head and each shoulder with the blade, and said solemnly, "Arise, Lady Borenson. We accept you into our service gladly, and for your deeds this day, I shall award you ten forcibles from my personal stores, along with the maintenance of your Dedicates."

Ten forcibles. The very thought brought tears to Myrrima's eyes, and she thought vainly that if she were to become a warrior, she ought not cry. But with ten forcibles, she could take enough endowments to become a warrior. It was a great gift, far more than she dared hope. Yet when she considered what she'd done for the kingdom, she knew that Iome felt so many forcibles were merely payment well earned.

Myrrima took her bow in hand and stood. By right, she was now a warrior of Heredon, equal in stature to any knight. She felt...relieved.

Iome went off to the tombs. While she was gone, Iome's Days came out of hiding, her face still pale with fear, and Binnesman and Jureem recounted for her the manner in which the Darkling Glory had been slain.

But Myrrima did not speak. Instead, she sat on the ground with her yellow pups and played with them, felt the p.r.i.c.k of their sharp teeth, let them kiss her face with their tongues.

Her dogs. The key to her power. By tonight they would reach Castle Groverman, and there a facilitator would sing his chants and take an endowment from a pup. The pup that had sought to protect her was bred for stamina. Myrrima would sorely need the attribute if she were to continue her training.

A wolf lord. By morning she would be a wolf lord. Rumor said that those who took endowments from dogs became more feral. She wondered if it would really change her, if in time she would become no better than Raj Ahten.

When Iome returned from the tombs, she had more than three dozen forcibles. She knelt beside Myrrima and said, "I brought extra for me. I wouldn't want you to be the only wolf lord in Heredon."

"Of course not," Myrrima said. They mounted up. Jureem gave Iome his own horse, and went to the stable to fetch a spare mount left by the King's Guard. Myrrima and Iome each held their baskets of pups, while the wizard Binnesman rode with the clubfooted boy.

As they ambled down the cobbled streets, Myrrima kept gazing back at the skyline of the city. It looked wrong with out the King's Keep standing, without the towers of the Dedicates Keep.

When they reached the drawbridge, Myrrima spotted the reaver's head still lying at the far side. She stopped her horse on the bridge, and gazed down into the water. She could see no fish; none finned the surface, none drew their runes of protection as they had over the past two days.

At last she spotted a sturgeon resting in the shadows beneath the bridge, among a bed of golden water lilies.

Resting. No longer seeking to protect the castle. The water wizards knew what they'd done, she suspected. Perhaps more than anything else, their spells had helped bring down the Darkling Glory.

"Binnesman," Myrrima said. "We should do something for the wizards. We must thank them in some way." She felt guilty for her remark, for yesterday morning she'd hoped to eat one. Now she realized just how great a debt she owed these fish.

"Of course," Binnesman said. The river is clearing of silt today. We could go unblock the spillway now, let the wizards go where they will. That's not something they can do for themselves."

Myrrima tried to imagine being a fish, imprisoned in the moat. The river had to be better, with its frogs and eels and ducklings and other delicacies.

With the help of Binnesman and Jureem, Myrrima pried loose the boards that dammed the spillway, opening the channel from the moat to the river.

As she climbed up out of the millrace, she saw the dark shapes of the wizards, their blue backs shadowy in the depths. The huge fish wriggled their tails and shot off into the river, heading upstream toward the Dunnwood and the headwaters of the river Wye.

CHAPTER 26.

OBRAN.

Borenson rested his eyes as he rode toward the Palace of the Concubines, still weak and reeling from fatigue and grief. He was never quite sure if he'd fallen asleep for only a moment or for an hour. The horses thundered on relentlessly; it seemed only moments before Pashtuk began prodding Borenson's ribs.

"We are here," Pashtuk said, indicating the valley down below. "The Palace of the Concubines."

Borenson lifted his head. He did not feel refreshed by his respite, did not feel as if he'd slept at all. And the "palace" did not live up to his expectations. He'd imagine an opulent edifice of stone, like the golden-domed palace; to the north, with soaring arches above the porticoes and vast open courtyards.

But there, on the valley's far side, a smattering of ancient stone buildings leaned against the rock face of a cliff.

It seemed an old place from afar, a deserted ruin. The valley around it was strewn with jagged stones and ancient boulders and spinebush and greasewood. He could not smell water nearby. He saw no sign of flocks or herds, no camels or horses or goats. No fires seemed to burn in the city. He could see no guards on any walls.

"Are you sure?" Borenson asked.

The Invincible merely nodded.

"Of course," Borenson realized. "He would not hide his greatest treasure in the open." The palace was concealed an anonymous ruin in the wastes. Obran. Borenson had thought the word meant "City of the Ancient King." But now another possible translation came to mind: "Ruins of the King."

Pashtuk led him down the trail.