Myrrima clenched her eyes shut and faced the wall. Her heart hammered.
I faced a Darkling Glory, she told herself. I bested a wight. I can fight this, too. Yet somehow, the vile runes terrified her more than other monsters ever could. She could do little to help Borenson but urge the horse forward with a kick of her heel.
Thus Borenson forged on against the repressive wards, dragging Myrrima someplace she could never have gone herself.
She felt the weight of the wards grow above her. Even with eyes clenched shut, she could see their loathsome shape now, stamped on the back of her brain as she bowed in submission. Your birth was a misfortune, a chance collision of wantonness with abandonment. You are no better than the secretions from which you were formed.
And farther away, as if from some hollow in the hills, Borenson roared in defiance, “Don’t believe it.”
And then she was beneath the arch. She could almost feel the weight of it as if it leaned upon her back, crushing her.
And then she was past it, and still she felt it behind her. Sobs wracked Myrrima now.
“I love you,” Borenson said calmly as he strode forward.
Myrrima would have lashed her horse and sped away into Inkarra but for the fact that Borenson kept it firmly in control.
With each step, the power of the wards faded. In a sense, she felt like a dreamer who has awakened from a nightmare. The dream was fading from her memory with each step of the horse, for the mind was not meant to feel such torment, and ultimately could not hold it for long.
Myrrima was half a mile beyond the wall, maybe more, by the time she was able to open her eyes and raise her head a bit. Borenson had taken the reins of all three mounts and led them over the pass and down toward Inkarra. His own mount bumped her leg to her right, the wizard’s mount to her left.
She gazed down the slopes. Ahead, a sea of mist rose above Inkarra. It was warmer on this side of the mountains, much warmer she realized, as if the wall did more than keep out unwanted northerners but also kept out the cold. The thin layer of snow vanished just down the hill, and shrubs here still rose up among the rocks, showing green leaves.
But beyond that, beyond those few signs of life among the stones, she could only discern a rolling sea of fog. “Beyond this point, your tribe is barren.” Barren of what? She wondered. Barren of hope? Barren of pride? Barren of comfort?
Borenson rounded a sharp corner in the road, and Myrrima suddenly saw to her left a small cave, the mouth of a fortress carved into the stone.
At the mouth of the cave stood three men with ivory skin and long silver hair wrapped in corn braids, which were all coiled together and hung over their right shoulders. They wore blood-red tunics that did not quite reach their knees, and beyond that, Myrrima could see no other article of clothing except their sandals, tied with cords that wrapped around the ankles and knees. For armor they wore steel breastplates, perfect circles, upon their backs and chests. They wore similar disks on bands upon their foreheads, and another upon their upper arms. Two of the men bore longbows, and the third carried an Inkarran battle-axe—two slats of wood bound together with a row of spikes between, so that it looked like the jawbone of some sharp-toothed beast.
“Halt!” an Inkarran warrior called in a thick accent as he strode forward. “You are our captives!”
9
Abyss Gate
Few have dared explore the depths of the Underworld, and fewer still have dared assault reavers in their lair. The exploits of Erden Geboren, whose Dark Knights hunted in the Underworld for years, are the stuff of legend now.
Long and long the riverbed wound through the Underworld. Gaborn ran in a daze of grief. His side ached from the blow he’d taken from the reavers, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the concern he felt at the loss of Binnesman.
The wizard had been the one to introduce Gaborn to the Earth Spirit. He had been a wise counselor and friend.
More than that, he had been Gaborn’s strongest supporter. As an Earth Warden, he had been set apart for one duty only: to protect mankind through the dark times to come. Gaborn was the Earth King, with powers of his own, regardless of how diminished. But Binnesman’s powers and wisdom had been incomparable.
With him gone, what will become of us? Gaborn wondered.
He felt ashamed to even worry about such a thing. But he knew the answer. Binnesman had said it himself. If he failed, mankind would be lost.
Averan raced beside Gaborn on her short legs, weeping bitterly. Iome stayed back and tried to urge the child on, her face a blank mask.
They had been running through the bed of the ancient river, where water had dribbled over rocks, leaving crater-shaped pools. They reached a wide cavern, where a tiny stream dripped down from a high wall, filling some pools.
Iome asked Gaborn at last, “Can we stop here for a rest?” The sound of reavers running overhead was a dim rumble. Gaborn stretched out his senses, felt for danger. Yes, he could feel it everywhere. Battles coming to Heredon, death to Carris, the creeping darkness that could swallow the world. With every hour that they ran, the darkness was one hour closer.
But for the moment, the danger to the three of them was not great. “We can stop.” His mouth was parched from lack of drink, and his belly clenched like a fist. With all his endowments of stamina he could endure much, but even a Runelord needed some refreshment.
He hadn’t eaten a decent meal since when? Yesterday at dawn? With his endowments of metabolism, his body registered that as something closer to ten days.
“We can’t stay long,” Averan said, her voice thick with fear.
“Why?” Gaborn asked.
“That reaver,” Averan said, “the one that...hit Binnesman. I smelled him. I know him. All of the reavers know him. He’s called the Consort of Shadows. He won’t leave us alone. He’ll hunt us until we’re dead.”
“What do you mean?” Gaborn asked.
“Among the reavers, he’s a legend,” Averan said. “He’s the One True Masters’ favorite, her mate. He’s a hunter, sent to track down sick and dangerous reavers.”
“Dangerous?” Iome asked.
“Among reavers,” Averan explained, “the most feared illness is something they call worm dreaming. Tiny worms eat into the reaver’s brain, causing phantom smells and visions—worm dreams. In time the worms cause terrible pain, forgetfulness, and death.
“So, when a reaver gets worm dreaming, to keep it from spreading, the sick reaver is killed and its carcass is burned.
“Such a death is a disgrace. For if a reaver dies and another eats its brain, then its memories, its experiences, are partly learned by the one who ate it. But reavers that aren’t eaten don’t get to share their memories.”
“In other words,” Gaborn reasoned, “a reaver can hope to gain a sort of immortality.” Gaborn had known that reavers ate their dead. He’d even known that they obtained the memories of the dead. But he’d never imagined that living reavers would hope to be eaten.
“Yes,” Averan said. “Every reaver hopes to be so well thought of that its death will spark a duel among others for the right to feed on its brain. And at feasts where the most powerful sorceresses gather, the brains of wise reavers are considered to be a treat.
“So, the most powerful reavers, like the Waymaker that I communicated with yesterday, have memories that stretch back a hundred generations in an unbroken chain.”
“I see where you are going,” Gaborn said. “To be thrown away, burned, is such a disgrace that some of them fight it. That’s where the Consort of Shadows comes in?”
“Yes,” Averan said. “Reavers who get burned die the ‘greater death.’ It’s a permanent death, and they’re disgraced by it. So when they begin to see signs of worm madness, the reavers often hide those signs even from themselves. They try to live out normal lives, be consumed, and die with honor.