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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 th