df.therunelords-第94部分

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　reaver　had　dragged　something　heavy　through　here　within　the　past　few　hours；　just　before　dawn。　Red　blood　clots　lay　on　the　ground；　with　bits　of　oily　synovial　fluid　from　a　cracked　joint。　The　scuff　marks　where　the　creature　had　been　dragged　still　had　tiny　balls　of　clay　rolled　in　them。　Very　recent　marks。
　The　imprint　of　the　reaver's　track　was　nearly　three　feet　long；　two　wide。　Four　toes。　A　female。　A　big　female。
　Borenson　stayed　on　his　horse　as　he　studied　the　trail。　Among　a　jumble　of　sharp　stones　lay　some　black　hairs。　It　looked　as　if　the　reaver　had　dragged　a　carcass　across　the　road；　perhaps　a　boar。　But　the　hair　was　too　fine　for　a　boar。　Borenson　sniffed。　Bear；　definitely。　A　big　male。　As　musky　as　the　scent　of　Dunnwood's　boars；　but　not　as　dirty。
　Borenson　sniffed　again；　tried　to　catch　the　scent　of　the　reaver；　but　smelled　nothing。　Reavers　were　uncanny　in　their　ability　to　mimic　the　scent　of　their　surroundings。
　Borenson　looked　up　the　trail；　wishing　that　he　could　track　the　reaverif　only　for　a　moment。
　Myrrima　could　be　in　danger。　Mostly　likely；　Raj　Ahten　would　lay　siege　for　a　bit；　spend　the　day　resting；　preparing　for　battle。　His　occupying　army　should　arrive　soon。
　Borenson　feared　he　couldn't　possibly　reach　the　castle　before　the　siege；　couldn't　help　Myrrima。
　Then　he　had　to　consider　the　challenge　of　hunting　the　reaver。　She'd　be　up　in　the　woods；　near　the　mountaintop；　feeding　on　the　bear。　The　ground　here　was　too　cluttered　for　a　man　to　negotiate　easily：　aspen　limbs　had　blown　from　trees；　underbrush　grew　thick　and　tall　after　a　long　summer。
　Catching　her　would　be　hard。　Reavers　could　sense　movement；　feel　sound　as　a　trembling。　The　only　way　to　get　close　to　one　was　to　sneak；　ever　so　slowly；　letting　footfalls　e　at　uneven　intervals。
　For　a　moment；　Borenson　considered　following　the　reaver。
　Distantly；　as　if　a　voice　called　from　far　off；　he　felt　a　powerful　pulsion。　Strike。　Strike　now　if　you　can！
　His　king　needed　him。　Myrrima　needed　him。
　He　spurred　his　charger　over　the　mountain　trails　as　snow　began　to　pile；　the　first　of　the　season。　The　breath　of　Borenson's　warhorse　came　in　tiny　swirls　of　cloud。　His　heart　pounded。
　Tomorrow　is　the　first　day　of　Hostenfest；　the　first　day　of　the　hunt；　Borenson　realized；　and　he　started　thinking　about　this　in　order　to　keep　calm。　It　would　have　been　a　good　hunt；　with　snow　falling。　The　boars　would　have　moved　to　the　valleys；　leaving　tracks　at　the　edges　of　glades。　He'd　have　bet　with　Derrow　and　Ault　as　to　which　of　their　lords　would　first　put　a　spear　into　a　pig。
　He　longed　for　the　yapping　of　dogs；　the　deep　calls　of　the　horns。　The　nightly　feasts　beside　the　fires。
　But　I　must　strike　now；　he　thought；　spurring　his　mount　faster。　He　wished　to　strike；　wished　he　had　a　target。
　Again　he　worried　whether　he'd　killed　all　the　Dedicates　at　Castle　Sylvarresta。　I've　struck　as　I　can；　he　told　himself。　He'd　killed　all　he'd　seen；　but　some　might　have　been　taken　from　the　keep　into　the　city；　so　that　invisible　lines　of　power　still　tied　Raj　Ahten　to　Dedicates　there。
　A　battle　between　Runelords　could　be　plex。　The　number　of　endowments　played　a　great　part　in　a　battle；　as　did　the　skill　and　training　of　the　warriors。
　But　a　balance　of　traits　was　also　important。　Raj　Ahten　had　so　many　endowments；　it　seemed　almost　futile　to　slay　his　Dedicates。　But　a　strong　Runelord　stripped　of　wit　and　grace　could　bee　a　mere　lout；　nothing　in　battle。　Take　away　his　metabolism；　and　though　a　Runelord　had　ten　thousand　endowments　of　brawn；　he　moved　so　slowly　pared　to　a　balanced　soldier　that　he　might　as　well　be　a　coat　rack；　he　became　a　〃warrior　of　unfortunate　proportion。〃
　By　killing　men　in　Castle　Sylvarresta；　Borenson　had　robbed　Raj　Ahten　of　many　endowments　of　grace。　The　Runelord　had　been　hoarding　it；　had　drawn　it　from　hundreds　of　men　at　the　castle。　Which　meant　he　felt　overbalanced　in　brawn。　This　would　leave　him　muscle…bound；　lacking　agility。　Perhaps；　given　such　imbalance；　King　Orden　might　stand　a　chance　against　the　Wolf　Lord。
　So　Borenson　hoped　he'd　acplished　his　job。　He　couldn't　bear　to　think　his　inpetence　might　cost　Orden　this　battle。　Couldn't　bearcouldn't　stomach　the　shame　that　coursed　through　him　when　he　thought　of　King　Sylvarresta　and　Iome；　still　alive。
　Sparing　those　two　had　cost　the　lives　of　dozens　of　others。　Sparing　them　lent　power　to　Raj　Ahten。
　A　small　amount　of　power；　true。　But　if　Borenson　and　some　other　assassins　struck　Raj　Ahten's　Dedicates　at　the　right　time；　the　Wolf　Lord　might　reach　some　unfortunate　proportion。
　Today　I　hunt　Raj　Ahten；　Borenson　told　himself；　and　he　let　a　killing　mood　seep　through　every　muscle　and　bone；　blanket　him　like　a　cloak。
　Today　I　am　death。　Today　I　hunt　him；　and　nothing　else。
　In　his　imagination；　he　practiced　killing；　preparing　his　every　fiber；　his　every　response　for　cold　murder。　He　imagined　how　it　would　be　when　he　met　Raj　Ahten's　scouts　here；　miles　north　of　Longmont；　along　the　road。　He'd　ride　them　down；　impale　them　on　his　lance　so　that　their　warm　blood　washed　him　in　a　wave；　leaving　no　witnesses。　Then　he'd　steal　a　uniform　and　ride　pell…mell　to　the　battle　lines；　bursting　in　on　Raj　Ahten；　as　if　delivering　a　message。　His　message　would　be　death。
　The　warriors　of　Inkarra　claimed　that　War　was　a　dark　lady；　and　that　those　men　who　served　her　best　gained　her　favor。　They　claimed　she　was　a　Power；　like　Earth　or　Air；　Fire　or　Water。
　Yet　in　the　Kingdoms　of　Rofehavan；　it　was　said　that　War　was　but　one　aspect　of　Fire；　and　that　no　one　should　serve　it。
　But　the　damned　Inkarrans　should　know；　Borenson　thought。　They　were　masters　of　war。
　Borenson　had　never　sought　the　Dark　Lady's　favor；　had　never　addressed　her　before；　hut　now　a　prayer　formed　on　his　lips；　an　ancient　prayer　he'd　heard　from　others　but　never　dared　voice　himself。
　〃Take　me　in　your　arms；　Dark　Lady；　take　me。　Wrap　me　in　grave　clothes；　and　let　your　sweet　breath　lie　cold　on　my　cheeks。　Let　darkness　steal　over　me；　and　fill　me　with　your　power。　Today；　I　call　to　you。　Today；　I　am　death。〃
　As　he　rode；　Borenson　began　to　smile；　then　to　laugh　a　deep；　throaty　chuckle　that　seemed　to　rumble　from　someplace　outside　him；　to　well　up　from　the　hills　or　from　the　trees。
　　
　Chapter　52
　A　PERFECT　DAY
　　
　Orden　woke　in　pain；　unable　to　tell　how　long　ago　he　had　passed　out。　The　blood　around　his　mouth　was　still　wet；　tasted　coppery　on　his　tongue。　Any　moment；　Mendellas　Orden　thought；　Raj　Ahten　will　kick　me　again；　begin　pummeling　me　to　death。
　But　nothing　happened。　Orden　lay　weak；　at　the　edge　of　consciousness；　waiting　for　a　killing　blow　that　never　came。
　With　his　many　endowments　of　stamina；　Orden　could　sustain　tremendous　damage。　His　wounds；　as　extensive　as　they　were　now；　would　not　lead　to　his　death。　Weeks　of　convalescence；　perhaps；　but　not　death。
　That　is　what　he　feared。
　He　opened　his　good　eye；　tried　to　see。　The　sun　high　above　shone　very　dim　through　clouds；　then　the　sky　went　black。
　The　glade　nearby　was　empty。
　He　swallowed；　struggled　to　think。　He'd　heard　the　faint　ching　of　ring　mail　as　he　passed　out。　Realized　numbly　that　it　could　have　been　the　sound　of　Raj　Ahten　lunging　away。
　Orden　looked　around　the　field　at　the　edge　of　the　knoll。　The　wind　faintly　swayed　the　pines；　the　grass　sat　as　if　bent　in　a　stiff　gale。　A　flock　of　starlings　hung　in　the　air　like　thistledown；　not　five　spans　from　him。　But　Orden　was　living　so　quickly；　the　wind　seemed　to　blow　slowly　in　parison。
　Raj　Ahten　had　fled。
　He's　left　me；　Orden　realized；　because　he　suspects　I'm　part　of　a　serpent。　He's　left　me　so　he　can　attack　the　castle。　Dimly；　he　heard　a　roar　like　the　sound　of　the　sea。　Loud　sounds；　as　if　tides　surged　and　churned。　In　his　quickened　state；　the　world　of　sound　had　vastly　changed。
　Now　he　recognized　that　these　must　be　loud　noises；　must　be　cries　of　war。　With　one　hand；　he　pushed　himself　up；　gazed　over　the　rolling　slope　of　Tor　Loman　to　Castle　Longmont。
　What　he　saw　horrified　him。
　Beyond　a　curtain　of　rain　or　sleet；　a　huge　fire　raged　on　the　hillside　above　Longmont。　From　that　otherworldly　fire；　flameweavers　and　salamanders　had　drawn　terrible　energies；　sending　a　green　wave　of　flame　screaming　across　the　downs　to　the　castle。　Frowth　giants　lumbered　over　the　fields　carrying　great　scaling　ladders。　The　mastiffs　of　war；　with　their　iron　collars　and　fierce　masks；　boiled　like　a　dark　tide　toward　the　castle　gates。
　Everywhere　in　the　blackness　Raj　Ahten's　Invincibles　raced　like　dark　roaches　for　the　castle；　shields　high　to　deflect　arrows；　weapons　drawn。
　Raj　Ahten's　forces　were　storming　Longmont。　The　sky　above　the　castle　was　black；　ropes　of　twisted　fire　funneling　from　the　sky。
　King　Orden　watched　from　Tor　Loman。　With　his　endowments　of　metabolism；　it　seemed　the　skies　had　gone　black　for　long　minutes；　one　could　only　discern　the　dim　ropes　of　flame　winding　down　from　heavencoiled　and　churning　like　the　winds　within　a　tornado。
　He　could　do　nothing　to　help。　He　could　not　charge　into　battle；　could　barely　crawl。
　Quietly；　he　began　to　sob。　Raj　Ahten　had　taken　everything　from　himhis　past；　his　present。　Now　his　future。
　In　the　darkness；　Mendellas　turned　and　painfully　struggled　up　the　rough　stone　steps　of　the　tower　to　the　Eyes　of　Tor　Loman。
　To　block　the　agony　of　his　ruined　limbs　from　his　mind；　he　tried　to　remember　good　times。　The　feasts　in　his　palace　in　Mystarria　during　midwinter；　on　Alms　Day。
　Always　the　fogs　washed　over　the　green　swales　on　those　winter　mornings；　and　from　the　pinnacles　of　the　great　tower　one　could　look　down　over　the　marshes　as　if　one　were　a　Sky　Lord　in　a　ship　of　cloudthe　gauzy　fog　so　pure。　In　places；　lesser　towers　of　the　Courts　of　Tide　could　be　seen；　or　the　greens　of　distant　pine　forests　on　the　western　hills；　or　to　the　south　the　shimmering　waters　of　the　Caroll　Sea　reflecting　the　sky。
　On　such　mornings；　he'd　always　loved　to　stand　on　his　own　observatory　in　the　tower；　and　watch　the　geese　in　their　winter　migration　e　winging　below　him　in　dark　Vs。
　He　conjured　the　memory　of　a　perfect　day　long　ago；　when　he'd　descended　from　his　tower；　invigorated　at　dawn；　gone　to　his　wife　in　her　bedchamber。
　He'd　planned　to　fetch　her　up　to　the　observatory；　to　show　her　the　sunrise。　Weeks　before；　an　early　frost　had　killed　the　roses　in　her　garden；　and　he'd　planned　to　show　her　how　the　sun　crept　up　the　horizon　in　the　color　of　the　softest　blushing　rose；　a　rose　that　painted　the　fog　for　miles　around。
　But　when　he　reached　her　bed