Raj Ahten wiped the sweat from his brow. It was pouring from him, making a sop of his tunic, slicking his hands. Rivulets threaded down his cheeks and into his beard. He drew the file over his axe blade, top to bottom, half a dozen times. As he worked, he studied his crumbling defenses on the walls.

His va.s.sals fought in vain.

The rent in the wall was growing quickly. Half of his artillery outposts were gone. Reavers fought atop the wall. One flameweaver was dead, the others were dwindling from exhaustion despite the fact that Carris was in flames.

His tawny-furred giants fought savagely, but only thirty had survived the retreat from Longmot. They were dying fast. Even as he watched, a blow from a reaver's blade split the skull of one giant, caught another in the back above his stubby tail.

And as the reavers battered the walls of Carris, they widened the breach, so that Raj Ahten's forces were now spread too thin to effectively block the reavers' efforts. Few of Paladane's lords had enough endowments left to fight a reaver. They struggled beside Raj Ahten's men, but their feeble efforts availed little.

Carris would fall despite all that he could do. It was not. a matter of hours--it was a matter of moments.

Commoners cried out as the black wind wrung tears and sweat from them. Some fainted.

Ten minutes of this might leave a man dead, Raj Ahten feared. In only one way had his luck held. A light wind was blowing from the east, across the lake, and it seemed to Raj Ahten to ameliorate the effects of the fell mage's spells.

Raj Ahten finished sharpening his axe. A reaver came barreling down, sliding over the slope of carnage. A frowth giant nearby bellowed as the reaver's greatsword struck through its neck. The giant lurched sideways and collapsed on a pair of Invincibles, and the reaver leapt into battle, the first swing of its blade striking through four men.

Raj Ahten made his grim choice. His men were dying. He had fewer than four hundred Invincibles left with which to fight, and fighting at all was in vain.

This battle would be lost, but he dared not lose the remnants of his army with it.

There would be other battles, other days.

It was not cowardice that drove him to the decision, but the cold certainty that he did what--in the long term--was best. He'd not sacrifice his men to save the lives of his enemies.

"Prepare the flotilla," Raj Ahten told Feykaald. "My flameweavers and Invincibles will take the first boats, my archers next. Spread the word."

Raj Ahten sprinted back into the fray.

CHAPTER 53.

THE EARTH'S PAIN.

How can I save them all? Gaborn wondered for what seemed the hundredth time that afternoon as he rode for Carris. He galloped fast now. A cool drizzle fell from leaden skies. Few lords rode horses that were able to keep pace: the wizard Binnesman, Queen Herin the Red her daughter, Sir Langley, and two dozen others.

He felt the fist of doom closing upon the messengers he'd sent to Carris. The Earth warned Gaborn of danger not just for himself, but for everyone who rode to Carris.

The force horses had thundered across the green fields of Beldinook. Gaborn made excellent time--he'd traveled nearly three hundred miles in six hours. But not everyone was able to follow at Gaborn's pace. He'd ridden into Beldinook with hundreds of lords at his back. Now, many of them had dropped from the race. His troops were strung out for hundreds of miles behind. The few who remained close rode horses that were spent. Some mounts were dead on their feet, but Gaborn dared not slow. His own Days had fallen behind hours ago, and Gaborn wondered if the man's horse had wearied, or if he feared to travel where Gaborn was heading.

The overwhelming aura of death that surrounded so many of Gaborn's people was suffocating. Gaborn had ridden over the battlefield at Longmot a week ago, seen thousands of good men that Raj Ahten had killed. He'd smelled the charred corpses, the blood and bile. He'd found his own father dead, cold as the snow he'd clutched in his empty hands.

Yet he'd not felt those deaths waiting to happen. He'd not been aware of the final moments of those men in the way he now felt the final moments of those around him.

How can I save them all? he wondered.

He felt Borenson riding into danger now, and Gaborn spoke a warning for Borensen's ears. "Flee!"

As he rode fifteen miles north of Carris, the wizard Binnesman raced beside him and shouted, "A moment's rest, milord. It won't do us any good to reach Carris on mounts that cannot fight."

Gaborn could hardly hear the man over the thundering of horses' hooves.

"Milord!" Langley shouted, adding his plea to Binnesman's. "Five minutes, please!"

Ahead, a pond beckoned to the right of the road. Fish were rising, snapping at mosquitoes. Cattle had come here to drink often, had churned the bank to mud near the road.

Gaborn reined in his horse, let it go to the water.

A pair of mallards began quacking and flew up from some cattails, circled Gaborn and the pond, then winged to the east. In no time at all, mosquitoes were gathering around Gaborn and he slapped them away from his face.

Sir Langley let his horse drink not twenty paces off, on the far side of Binnesman. Langley grinned at Gaborn. "By the Powers," he said. "If I'd known that I'd have to contend with so many mosquitoes, I'd have worn plate!"

Gaborn was in no mood for jests. He looked back as a few lords straggled to a stop, made a quick count.

Gaborn had no army at his back. Just twenty knights. Worthy lords out of Orwynne, Fleeds, and Heredon. Gaborn's Days was nowhere to be seen.

He did not have an army--just a few people brave enough and foolish enough to follow him to their deaths.

Gaborn felt certain that Castle Carris and its inhabitants could not stand another hour.

Gone were the troops he'd hoped to gain from King Lowicker. The men behind him would be of no use. He'd hoped to find one of his own armies, or perhaps the Knights Equitable that High Marshal Skalbairn had promised.

It does not matter, Gaborn told himself. I do not know what Raj Ahten is up to, but I will ride to him and demand surrender or give him his death.

Binnesman's mount stood and drank, taking draughts of water in great gasps. Gaborn got out his feed bag and held up a last double handful of miln for his horse to eat. The warhorse whickered gratefully at Gaborn. It chewed the sweet oats, malt, and mola.s.ses quickly. Its eyes looked dull and tired.

Gaborn wiped his sticky hands on his tunic afterward, and Binnesman must have seen Gaborn's worried expression, for he asked softly, "What troubles you, milord?"

Night was falling, the last full rays of sunlight streamed through some broken clouds. The wind off the pond blew cold in Gaborn's face.

He spoke softly, not wanting to be heard by the lords who were still converging on the watering hole. "We're riding into great danger. I have been wondering: How can I set a value on the lives of others? How can I Choose one man above another?"

"Choosing isn't hard," Binnesman said. "It's not Choosing that pains you."

"But how can I set a value on the lives of others?"

"Time and again you've shown me that you hold life precious," Binnesman answered. "You value most people even more than they value themselves."

"No," Gaborn said. "My people love life."

"Perhaps," Binnesman said. "But just as you try to shield your weaker subjects with your own life, any man in this company" he nodded to those lords who were closing in behind--"would give his life for another."

He was right. Gaborn would gladly give his life in service to others. He'd die n.o.bly for them in battle, live n.o.bly for them in times of peace.

"What is really bothering you?" Binnesman asked.

Hoping that no one else would hear, Gaborn whispered, "The Earth came to me in a dream, and has threatened to chastise me. It has warned that I must Choose the seeds of humanity, and nothing more."

Binnesman focused completely on Gaborn now, frowning in apparent horror. The Earth Warden drew close. "Beware, milord. If the Earth chose to speak to you in a dream, it is only because you are too preoccupied to listen when you are awake. Now, tell me exactly, what did the Earth warn you against?"

"Against...Choosing too widely," Gaborn said. "The Earth appeared in the form of my dead father, and warned me that I must learn to accept death."

Gaborn dared not admit that he had not yet come to terms with his father's death. The Earth asked something that was impossible for him.

The Earth had warned Gaborn that he needed to narrow his scope, to Choose only the best seeds of humanity to save through the dark season to come.

But who were the best?

Those he loved the most? Not always.

Those who contributed most to the world? Was one man's art of more value than a baker's skill at baking bread, or a humble peasant woman's love for her children?

Should he Choose those who could fight best in his behalf, and thus best defend his people?

How could Gaborn set a value on life? He'd seen into the hearts of his people, and now it seemed that the gift of Earth Sight was as much a burden as a boon.

He'd seen into the hearts of others, and knew that old men loved life more fiercely than youths who should have treasured their days.

He saw into the hearts of others and seldom found men to be as virtuous as he hoped. The best soldiers, the men he most wanted as warriors, often did not value life. Too many of them were brutal creatures who loved blood and domination. Far too seldom did a virtuous man wield a sword.

Far too often Gaborn looked into the hearts of men and, as with King Lowicker, found the sight unbearable.

How then could he turn away from a simple person who deserved life, but had little to offer: babes and clubfooted boys and grandmothers tottering on the edge of doom.

Binnesman said solemnly, in a whisper that no one else nearby would hear, "You are in grave danger, milord. Those who serve the Earth must do so with perfect complicity. If you do not serve the Earth, it will withdraw your powers."

Binnesman studied Gaborn for a long moment, frowning. "Perhaps I am at fault," he said. "When you gained the power of Choosing, I told you to be generous. I should have warned you that a great danger also lies in being too generous. You may have to give up some that you have Chosen....Is that what you feel?"

Gaborn closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. At this moment, he could not accept death.

"Milord!" Sir Langley shouted, and he pointed toward the crest of a rounded hill a couple of hundred yards to the south.

Up there, a brown vapor stole over the fields, creeping over the hill like a gra.s.s fire, moving at about the pace that a man could walk. But no smoke rose from that fire, no flames burned within it.

Instead, gra.s.ses and low shrubs hissed and wilted in gray ruin. The creeping line of brown smoke hit a great oak, and part of the bark on it shattered and split. Its leaves turned a sickly hue and began to drop. Even the mistletoe hanging in its limbs hissed and writhed. The bachelor's b.u.t.tons at the oak's base went from vivid blue to dullest gray in seconds.

Then the fog of destruction blew downhill.

Binnesman frowned, stroked his short beard.

Gaborn stared at the lurking mist in growing horror. "What is that?" he ventured.

"I...don't know," Binnesman said. "It may be a blasting spell of some kind, but I've never heard of one so powerful."

"Is it dangerous to people?" Gaborn asked. "Will it kill the horses?"

Binnesman mounted his horse and rode toward the hill. Gaborn hurried to the wizard's side, loathing the touch of that desecrating fog.

When Gaborn reached the brown haze, he smelled death and putrefaction. He immediately felt corruption around him. Even with his endowments, breathing that mist weakened every muscle. His head reeled, and Gaborn sat in his saddle, sickened to the core of his soul. He could only imagine how the mist would affect commoners.

"Ah!" he cried as he drew near Binnesman.

He looked at the wizard to see its effect on him; and Binnesman suddenly seemed older than before, the creases in his face etched more deeply, his skin grayer. He bent over in his saddle, like a frail and devastated man.

Behind Gaborn, his men left off caring for their mounts and rode up behind the King. Gaborn watched their reaction to the mist. To his surprise, they did not seem as devastated by the mist as he and Binnesman were.

"Forgive me for doubting you, my King," Binnesman said hoa.r.s.ely before the others could arrive. "You were right to insist on riding to Carris. Your powers of perception are growing, and have surpa.s.sed even mine. We must strike down whatever is causing this defilement."

Gaborn crested the hill and stared south in apprehension. In the distance, whole forests lay denuded. Skeletal branches raked the sky. Steam curled in thin wisps from gray mounds of gra.s.s.

The Earth was in torment. Gaborn could feel it in every muscle and bone.

Three warriors sat ahorse half a mile in the distance, gazing back at Gaborn. One wore the horned helm of Toom, another carried the long rectangular shield of Beldinook. The third wore full plate in the elaborately decorative style of warriors from Ashoven.

Such disparate styles of armor would only be worn by Knights Equitable. The three peered at Gaborn a moment, and the warrior from Toom raised his right hand in a sign of peace, as he urged his horse toward the hill.

A huge man with an enormous axe strapped across his back and a deadly gleam in his eyes, he raced to Gaborn's side. Horror showed in his countenance. He studied the twenty men at Gaborn's back. "Is this all, Your Highness? Is this all the army you bring?"

"A few others follow, but they will not be here in time to save Carris," Gaborn said frankly.

"That I can see;" the warrior said.

"King Lowicker betrayed my trust," Gaborn explained. "None will come from Beldinook, only Queen Herin and a few others from Fleeds, Orwynne, and Heredon. We did not ride soon enough, I'm sorry to say."

"Can you stop this devastation?" the man asked, motioning toward the tide of dead foliage, the putrid haze that covered the land.

"We must try," Binnesman answered.

The big warrior grunted. "I was sent to wait back here, in hopes of reinforcements. High Marshal Skalbairn awaits your command. Our troops are moving south, not eight miles down the road, but even the Righteous Horde is no match for so many reavers."

"Reavers?" Sir Langley asked in astonishment, and the twenty lords who had followed Gaborn abruptly laid propriety aside as they began shouting. "How many? Where? When did they attack?"

Astonished, Gaborn sat in his saddle, unable to speak. Even with all his powers--his recognition that his Chosen were in danger, his often precise knowledge of how to save them--he still could not tell whether his Chosen fought against bandits or lords or reavers--or were simply in jeopardy of falling off a stool.

He'd expected to find Raj Ahten storming Carris.

The three Knights Equitable all began to answer at once. "Our far-seers reported the castle taken by Raj Ahten before dawn, but reavers rode in on his heels. There are some twenty thousand blade-bearers, we estimate, plus many reavers of other kinds. Raj Ahten led a charge against them not an hour ago, and lost some men. The reavers are at the castle walls, but Raj Ahten is making them pay dearly for their conquest."

Gaborn studied Sir Langley. The young lord was full of power. Langley wore scale mail and a helm, yet in some ways seemed not to wear armor at all. He'd been receiving endowments for two days as the facilitators of Orwynne sought to raise him to become Raj Ahten's equal. The man wore his armor now as lightly as a farmer would don his tunic, and the profound strength and power in him seemed to overflow, as if it could not be held within a metal skin.

Now Sir Langley proposed that they should attack. "We can charge into their flanks, take the reavers by surprise." He was eager to fight, over eager.

"Charging a horde of reavers should not be considered lightly," Binnesman argued. "We don't have nearly enough troops for such a feat."