When he reached the top of the tower, the Frowth giants quit drumming, and Raj Ahten's army halted. The untrained nomen growled and hissed in the distance, as if eager to do battle.
Lord Raj Ahten himself gave a shout, reigning in his stallion, and such was the power of his call--for he bore endowments of Voice from hundreds and hundreds of people--that his words carried clearly even this high on the citadel, even blowing on the wind. He sounded kindly and pleasant, belying the threat inherent in his deeds.
"King Sylvarresta, people of Heredon," Raj Ahten called, his voice as fair as the tinkling of a bell, as resonant as a woodwind. "Let us be friends--not combatants. I bear you no malice. Look at my army--" He spread his arms wide. "You cannot defeat it. Look at me. I am not your enemy. Surely you will not force me to squat here in the cold tonight, while you dine beside your hearths? Throw open your gates. I will be your lord, and you will be my people."
His voice sounded so pleasant, so brimming with reason and gentleness, that had she been on the walls, Iome would have found it hard to resist.
Indeed, in that moment, she heard the gears to the main portcullis grind, and the drawbridge began to lower.
Iome's heart pounded. She leaned forward, shouting "No!" astonished that some of her fool subjects, overwhelmed by a monster's glamour and Voice, were doing his bidding.
Beside her, King Sylvarresta also shouted, ordering his men to raise the bridge. But they were far from the gates, so high up. The sound of Orden's shout was muffled by the visor on his helm. He pulled it up to call more clearly.
In keeping with her own feelings of anger, down at the gates, Captain Derrow let a bolt loose at the Wolf Lord. Derrow's bolt flew with incredible speed, a blur of black iron that would have driven through any other man's armor.
But the speed and strength of Raj Ahten outmatched him. The Runelord simply reached up and caught the bolt in midair.
Such speed. Raj Ahten had done the unthinkable, taking so many endowments of metabolism. Even from here, she saw that he must move five or six times as fast as a common man. Living at such speed, he'd age and die in a matter of years. But before then, he might well conquer the world.
"Here now," he called, sounding reasonable. "We'll have no more of that." Then with great force, with a sound of gentleness that slid past all of Iome's defenses, Raj Ahten commanded, "Throw down your weapons and your armor. Give yourselves to me."
Iome leapt to her feet, found herself grasping for her poniard, ready to toss it over the walls. Only Gaborn's hand, which reached to stop her, kept her from dropping the weapon over the wall.
Immediately she regretted it, saw how foolish it had been, and she glanced at her father, afraid at how angry he might be. She saw him struggling, struggling, to keep from tossing his own warhammer over the tower wall.
For half a heartbeat she stood, terrified of how her people might respond to Raj Ahten's voice and glamour, fearing that those closer to the monster would be fooled.
With a shout, as if in celebration, her people began tossing bows and weapons over castle walls. Swords and fouchards clattered on the stones beside the moat, along with helms and shields. The ballistas on the south wall crashed to the water, raising a plume of spray. From here, the sound of her people cheering was almost deafening, as if Raj Ahten had come as their savior, not their destroyer, and in that moment, the city gates opened wide.
Several of House Sylvarresta's most loyal soldiers began to struggle, hoping to close the gates. Captain Derrow swung his steel bow as a weapon, fending off townsmen. A few warriors with great heart but lesser gifts never made it from their posts at the walls. As soon as they shouted in defiance, those standing nearby grabbed them. Brawls broke out. Iome saw several of the city guards get tossed over the walls to their deaths.
From here, Iome could not see the beauty of Raj Ahten's face. From here, surely the wind diminished the sweetness of his voice.
From here on the castle wall, even though Iome could comprehend how her city was lost, she could not quite believe what she saw with her own eyes.
She was stunned. She found herself shaken more than she could have imagined.
The drawbridge came down. The portcullis lifted. The inner gate opened.
Without one enemy loss, Castle Sylvarresta fell.
Amid cheers, Raj Ahten rode into the inner court, just inside the great wall, while Iome's people tossed aside the carts and barrels that littered the area, and chickens flew up out of the Wolf Lord's path.
How could I have been so blind? Iome wondered. How could I have not seen the danger?
Only moments before, Iome had hoped that her father and King Orden would be able to withstand Raj Ahten.
How simpleminded I am.
From beside her, Iome's father shouted, calling across the distance, calling for his men to surrender. He did not want to watch them die.
The stiff evening wind carried away his words.
In shock, Iome glanced at her father's face, saw him pale and shaken, beaten, beaten, and utterly hopeless.
My father's voice is as dry and insubstantial as ash blowing in the wind, Iome thought. He is nothing before Raj Ahten. We are all nothing. She'd never imagined this.
Raj Ahten leaned forward in his saddle, moving ever so lightly. From so far away, his face was no larger in her field of vision than a sparkling bit of quartz sand glittering on a beach; she imagined him beautiful. He seemed young. He seemed fair. He wore his armor more lightly than another man might wear his clothes, and Iome watched him in wonder. It was rumored that he had endowments of brawn from thousands of men. If not for fear of breaking his bones, he could leap the walls, slice through an armored man as if slicing through a peach.
In battle he would be nearly invincible. With his endowments of wit--drained from hundreds of sages and generals--no swordsman could take him by surprise. His endowments of metabolism would let him move through the courtyard, dodging between startled guards, an unstoppable blur. With enough endowments of stamina, he could withstand almost any blow in battle.
For all intents and purposes, Raj Ahten was no longer even a human. He'd become a force of nature.
One intent on subduing the world.
He needed no army to back him, no force elephants or shaggy Frowth giants to batter down the palace gates. No nomen to scale the walls. No flameweavers to set the city's roofs aflame.
They were all minor terrors, distractions. Like the ticks that infested a giant's fur.
"We can't fight," her father whispered. "Sweet mercy, we can't fight."
Beside her, Gaborn's breath came ragged, and he moved so close that Iome could feel the warmth of him beside her face.
Iome felt disconnected from her body as she simply watched the events unfold below. People were running to the courtyard, trying to press close to the new lord, their Lord, who would destroy them all.
Iome feared Raj Ahten as she feared death; yet she also found that she welcomed him. The power of his Voice made her welcome him.
Prince Gaborn Val Orden said softly, "Your people don't have the will to resist. My regrets to House Sylvarresta--to your father, and to you--for the loss of your kingdom."
Thank you," Iome said, her voice weak, far away.
Gaborn turned to King Sylvarresta. "My lord, is there anything I can-" Gaborn was looking at Iome. Perhaps he hoped to take her from here, to take her away.
Iome's father turned to the Prince, still in shock. "Do? You are but a boy? What could you possibly do?"
Iome's mind raced. She wondered if Gaborn could help her escape. But, no, she couldn't imagine it. Raj Ahten would know she was in the castle. The royals were marked. If Gaborn tried to free her, Raj Ahten would hunt them down. The most Gaborn might accomplish would be to save himself. Raj Ahten did not know that Prince Orden was on the grounds.
Apparently, King Sylvarresta reached the same conclusion. "If you can make it from the castle, give my regards to your father. Tell him I regret that we won't hunt together again. Perhaps he can avenge my people."
Her father reached under his breastplate, pulled out a leather pouch that held a small book. "One of my men was murdered while trying to bring this to me. It contains writings from the Emir of Tuulistan. Much of the end of it is only philosophical ramblings and poetry--but it contains some accounts of Raj Ahten's battles.
"I believe the Emir wanted me to learn something from it, but I have yet to figure out what. Will you see that it gets to your father?"
Gaborn took the leather pouch, pocketed it.
"Now, Prince Orden, you had better leave, before Raj Ahten learns you're here. Considering the present state of my loyal subjects, it won't be long till he finds out."
"Then with regrets, I take my leave." Gaborn bowed to the King.
To Iome's surprise, Gaborn stepped forward, kissed her cheek. She was astonished to find how hard her heart beat in response to his touch. Gaborn stared keenly at her, whispered in a fierce tone, "Keep heart. Raj Ahten uses people. He does not destroy them. I am your protector. I will return for you."
He turned smartly and hurried to the stairs, running so softly she did not hear his feet scuff the stone. If not for the racing of her heart and the warmth on her cheek where he'd kissed her, she almost would have thought she'd imagined him.
Captain Ault stepped in behind Gaborn and followed him down into the bailey.
How will he escape, she wondered, with Raj Ahten's guards watching the city?
She glanced down at his retreating back, at his blue cloak flapping, as Gaborn made his way through the throng of the blind, the deaf, the idiots and other crippled Dedicates of House Sylvarresta. He was not tall. Perhaps a young man could escape the castle without regard.
How odd, she considered, her thoughts still disjointed, to think I love him. She almost dared hope that they really might wed.
But of course, Prince Orden had to save himself, and she had nothing to offer him. Dully, she realized that this day could not have turned out any other way.
Perhaps we are both more pragmatic than we want to believe, she wondered.
"Goodbye, my lord," she whispered to Gaborn's retreating form, and added an old blessing for wayfarers. "May the Glories guide your every step.
She turned back to look down on Lord Raj Ahten, grinning and waving to his new subjects. His dappled gray stallion strode proudly through the cobbled streets, and the peasants parted for him easily, their cheers becoming steadily more deafening. He'd already made it into the second tier of the city, past the Market Gate. He spurred his way up through the streets, and for a moment was hidden from Iome's view.
Suddenly Chemoise stood at Iome's elbow. Iome swallowed hard, wondering what Raj Ahten would do to her. Would she be put to death? Be tortured? Disgraced?
Or would he leave her some position, let her father reign as a regent? It seemed possible.
One could only hope.
Down below, Raj Ahten suddenly rounded a corner and was now only two hundred yards away.
She could see his face beneath the sweeping white wings of his helm--the clear skin, glossy black hair, the impassive dark eyes. Handsome, handsome. As perfectly formed as if he were sculpted by love or goodness.
He looked up at Iome. Because she was beautiful as only a princess of the Runelords could be, Iome was growing accustomed to the occasional rapacious stares of men. She knew how sorely her appearance could arouse a man.
Yet of all the predatory gazes she'd ever been granted, nothing compared to what she saw laid bare in Raj Ahten's eyes.
Gaborn nearly flew down the stairs of the Dedicates' Tower, making his way through the crowded courtyard, past the smelly idiots, the cripples.
Captain Ault was at his side, and he said, "Young sir, please go into the Dedicates' kitchens, and wait until I send someone for you. The sun will be down in moments. We can find a way to get you over a wall after nightfall."
Gaborn nodded. "Thank you, Sir Ault."
He'd known for hours that he'd have to make his escape from Castle Sylvarresta, but hadn't believed it would happen so soon. He'd imagined that the castle's defenders would have put up a great battle. The castle walls were certainly thick enough, high enough to hold Raj Ahten's army at bay.
He'd wanted some sleep. He'd had almost none over the past three days. In truth, he needed almost no sleep. As an infant, he'd been given three endowments of stamina, and fortunately two of those who'd granted the endowments still lived. So, in the way of those who had great stamina, Gaborn was able to get his rest on horseback, to let his mind rest, as he moved about as if through a waking dream. Still, he sometimes wanted a nap.
Food was another matter. Even a Runelord with great stamina needed food. Right now Gaborn's stomach was cramping. Yet he had almost no time to eat.
Worse than that, he'd taken a wound--nothing major, but an arrow had pierced his right bicep. His sword arm. He'd washed and bandaged it, but the thing throbbed, burned.
And Gaborn had no time to take care of any of these needs. Right now, he needed a disguise.
He'd killed one of Raj Ahten's outriders, three of his Frowth giants. His arrows had taken half a dozen war dogs.
Raj Ahten's outriders would want vengeance on Gaborn. He was cornered. He didn't feel certain that he could escape, even if he waited an hour for full darkness. Gaborn had two endowments of scent, but his keen sense of smell was nothing compared to that of some of Raj Ahten's troops: men with noses more keen than a hound's. They would track him.
Despite his show of confidence to Iome, Gaborn felt terrified. Still, he took one thing at a time. He smelled food cooking in the Dedicates' kitchens, hurried through a broad plank door. Its brass handle felt loose in his hand.
He found himself not in the kitchen, but in the wide entrance to the dining chamber. To the right of the door, he could see past several heavy beams into kitchens where the cooking fires burned like a blast furnace. Several plucked geese hung from the rafters, along with cheeses, strings of garlic, smoked eels, and sausages. He could hear a soup boiling in one of the big kettles next to the fire. The smell of tarragon, basil, and rosemary lay heavy in the air. A worktable lay between him and the kitchens, and a young blind girl was there, stacking boiled eggs, turnips, and onions on a huge metal tray.