The Finest Challenge - Hardcover

Rabe, Jean

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0765308223 ISBN 13: 9780765308221

Publisher: Tor Books, 2006

Synopsis

They were the Finest Creations--mystically forged creatures of perfection sent by the creators to aid the Fallen (mankind) during their mortal existence. Though they resemble ordinary horses they are highly intelligent, capable of communicating telepathically, and completely moral. They are assigned to bond with individuals of great potential and to protect them from harm while guiding them along a path of virtue.

THE FINEST CHALLENGE

Kalantha has successfully rescued her brother from the shadow of the evil bishop's bellicose influence, but now finds herself cut off from both him and her Finest protector, Gallant Stallion. All three must race against the clock to curtail the unnecessary war that the Bishop's minions have engineered. And, still lurking in the shadows and prowling the night skies is the avian menace whose dreams of a carrion-strewn countryside can still come through if their equine nemesis is neutralized.

The Finest series combines elements of Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series with C.S. Lewis's Narnia to tell an inspiring tale of moral and mystical intrigue.

About this title

About the Author

A former journalist and news bureau chief, Jean Rabe has written seventeen fantasy novels and more than three dozen fantasy, science-fiction, mystery,
and military short stories. Among her works are the Finest trilogy from Tor and numerous Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms books for TSR/WotC. She has edited several anthologies and has collaborated with Andre Norton on Return to Quag Keep and A Taste of Magic. She lives in Kenosha, Wisconsin, with her husband, two dogs, and a miniature macaw.

Reviews

In fantasy stories, young protagonists are often wiser than their years and savvy in the ways of politics. In Rabe's third book about magical horses from the Finest Court (after The Finest Choice), 14-year-old Kalantha and her older brother, Meven are, regrettably, rather clueless to just about everything. Meven, who has become king, has inadvertently started a bloody war under the influence of the diabolical Bishop DeNogaret. After Kalantha persuades her brother that the war is evil, Meven decides the best way to end it is to traipse over to the opposing side with open arms. While it's a noble idea, it's also a recipe for disaster. Meanwhile, Kalantha, who's under attack at the palace, flees without the aid of her horse, Rue. What follows is a muddled game of catch-up among the main characters as they try to end the war. Rabe started the series with a bang, but this volume shows signs of fatigue.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Rabe resumes the series that began with The Finest Creation (2004) where The Finest Choice (2005) left off, with evil Bishop DeNogaret laid up by injuries suffered when Gallant-Stallion prevented him from killing Kalantha. Meven, out of the bishop's sway, comes to his senses and realizes in horror how much suffering and death he has caused by warring with Nasim-Guri. Although Meven's forces are close to winning, he determines to go to Nasim-Guri and make amends to King Silverwood. DeNogaret is just as determined to prevent the war's ending, as is the malevolent falcon that leads the vicious assassin birds. The result is the expected attacks and counterattacks leading up to a violent climactic battle in King Silverwood's courtyard. Slightly weaker structurally than its predecessors, this is still a book that fans will want to read. And the epilogue hints at one more. Sally Estes
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

 
War Torn
 
A proper king's feet should be deeply rooted in his country. His heart should beat with concern for his people. His head should be filled with plans for a better future. And his eyes should always observe the rest of the world.
 
~Sorrel Wintermane, shepherd to Bernd Sameter, first king of Nasim-Guri
 
The large tent had been intended for summer festivals, when long tables spread with desserts and fruits would be arrayed inside for the dining pleasure of noble guests. But the dirt and bloodstains marked the tent's new and grim purpose this early spring.
 
A guard bowed and held the flap open. "Sire."
 
"Are you sure you want to see this, Kal?" Meven squared his shoulders and looked down into his sister's wide green eyes. "It's cold out here. It smells pretty awful in there and . . ."
 
"You know I've seen wounded men before, Meven." A pause: "And plenty of dead ones." She pulled her cloak tight around her. "Besides, I'd rather be with you than in that old palace of yours. I don't like the looks some of your servants give me. Your palace is . . ."
 
"Our palace."
 
"Is too big. I could get lost in it." She brushed past him, then threw her hand over her mouth and gagged. Kalantha instantly felt weak.
 
The cloying odor of diseased and rotting flesh was the strongest, and under that the coppery scent of blood. Cots stretched end to end in rows from the front to the back of the tent, and not a single one sat empty. The most grievously injured rested the farthest away, which was where Kalantha headed. The people tending the wounded huddled back there, clustered near a single cot and talking so their words sounded like the buzz of an insect swarm.
 
She passed men with bandaged arms, some splinted with what looked like chair legs. A few had woolen strips wrapped around their heads. One man's eyes were thickly bandaged; his cheeks were pink with a fever, and his hands alternately clenched and released the blanket. She stopped and stared, wondering if she should say something to comfort him.
 
"Why don't you go back to the palace? I'll see you there in a bit." Meven moved up next to her.
 
She drew her chin against her neck. "No."
 
"Kal . . ."
 
"I want to see this."
 
Meven put a hand on her shoulder, the gesture somehow giving her strength. She straightened and stepped back from the feverish man, nearly backing into the cot behind her.
 
"I want to see what the war has done."
 
"What I have done, you mean." Meven sucked in a breath. "This is all my fault. By the gods, all of this is because of me."
 
She spun and looked up. Though only two years older, he was more than a head taller. "It's not your fault, Meven. It's not your war. Bishop DeNogaret . . ."
 
"Wanted the war with Nasim-Guri, sure. But I was weak enough to let him talk me into it. I think a part of me wanted Nasim-Guri, and maybe a part of me still does. More land. More subjects and more power. But I don't want this." He gestured at the cots. "I honestly never wanted any of this."
 
He dug the ball of his foot into the ground and opened his mouth to say something else. Kalantha took a last look at the feverish man with the bandaged eyes, then went to the back of the tent.
 
"They're all so young, Meven. Why did you want to come out here this morning to look at them?"
 
He followed her without answering, then lengthened his stride and passed her by. He nodded to a young knight he'd sparred with once, but the man was unconscious.
 
"Theron, are these the men brought in late last night?" Meven directed this to the tallest officer in the huddle.
 
The man separated from the group and stopped at attention in front of Meven. "Aye, Sire. These men fought just across the border, against fifty Nasim-Guri soldiers. They drove the enemy back beyond the river, and killed more than a few of them. About a dozen of our men were wounded in the process. The worst we brought here, the rest were patched up and sent back out to fight. The villages farther south already were full with wounded, no room for these men. Not sure if any of them will make it, after us carrying them so far. Should have stayed with them in the field until the end, then buried them."
 
Steeling himself, Meven took a deep breath and edged forward.
 
The men who were gathered around the cot parted.
 
Theron whispered: "His name is Weldon Smithson, Sire. His father is a prominent wheelwright in Nadir and head of the guild. That's the reason we brought him, his father being in the city. Else we would have left him somewhere along the road and buried him in a field. We're all surprised he's still with us."
 
Meven knelt next to the cot and took Weldon's hand. The young man offered the King a weak smile.
 
"Has his father been summoned?"
 
"Not yet, Sire. We . . ."
 
Meven's eyes narrowed as he looked up at Theron and the others. "He should have been summoned last night when you arrived. Doesn't matter how late the time."
 
"We were tending to everyone, sorting things out, Sire, and . . ."
 
"Summon the elder Smithson now. Right now. His wife . . ."
 
"She died some years ago, Weldon told us."
 
"Brothers? Sisters?"
 
"One brother, Sire, and he's fighting north of Duriam."
 
"Summon the elder Smithson now," Meven repeated. "Now. Have it done, Theron. Do it yourself."
 
The tall man gave a nod and whirled on his booted feet, nearly bumping into Kalantha, who'd crept nearer.
 
Meven returned his attention to Weldon. "Your father will be here soon."
 
Weldon shook his head, and a line of blood spilled out of his mouth. "Don't want him to see me like this, Sire. I . . ."
 
"He'll see you now, and later when you're well. I'll have you and him brought to the palace for dinner. Next week, in fact."
 
Weldon's eyes were fixed, and his hand went limp in the King's grip. His breathing grew shallow.
 
"Weldon?"
 
The young man coughed, pinkish bubbles trailing down his chin. Meven raised Weldon's head.
 
"It will be a fine dinner," Meven continued. "Roast goose, I think. Brushed with butter and stuffed with rice and some of those tiny onions from the fall harvest that the cooks saved in the pantry. They say onions are the food of poor people, but I like them well enough. We'll have soup, of course. The cooks make soup every night. I get tired of it. Dessert. They always make dessert, too. I never tire of that. Have you a favorite cake?"
 
Sweat beads covered Weldon's face, and his skin had gone paler in the few moments Meven held him. The young man was practically as white as parchment.
 
"Spice cake is my favorite, I think. My sister, Kalantha, she's right here behind me . . . she likes any kind of cake. The cooks put the frosting on thick for special occasions. And if we've raisins imported from the south, they use some of those, too. Do you think you'd like spice cake, Weldon?"
 
"He's dead, Sire."
 
One of the soldiers pulled the blanket up and waited for Meven to move.
 
"A dagger to the stomach, they said. Truly surprised he lived as long as he did, considering it took days to get here. We were certain he wouldn't make it through the night. I think he held on just because we told him you were coming by to visit everyone this morning. Said he'd never seen the King up close."
 
Meven pulled his arm free and released the dead man's hand. He stood shakily, his eyes locked on the corpse's fixed gaze.
 
The soldier tugged the blanket over Weldon's head. Behind Meven, a soldier covered another corpse.
 
"You'll clean him up before his father comes?" This came from Kalantha. "And take him outside this tent? No need for the elder Smithson to come into this horrid, smelly place."
 
The soldier looked to the King.
 
"Yes, clean him up," Meven said. "Put him in something not so bloody. He's about my size, so you can ask the steward for one of my tunics. Lay him in the palace entry hall if you'd like. Kal's right. His father . . . none of these men's families should see them in this place."
 
Meven stared at the blanket-draped form until Kalantha tugged on his arm. "We should go, Meven, and let these men tend the wounded. They're not working with you here."
 
Meven numbly concurred and let her lead him from the tent.
 
Kalantha breathed deep once the soldier closed the flap behind them. "Smells better out here. Will smell even better the farther we get from the tent. I think . . ." She spotted two more tents, smaller than this one and closer to the wall. She realized more wounded were in them. Between the tents was a tarp covering a mound of something.
 
"Bodies," Meven said, following her gaze. "They put the dead outside and cover them up until the families arrange for burial. And if there are no families, or if they can't tell who the dead are, they bury them in a mass grave near the cliff."
 
Kalantha continued to stare. "How many?" she asked finally. When he didn't immediately answer, she asked again. "How many soldiers have died?"
 
"Knights and soldiers," Meven said. "And some villagers who joined up along the way." His voice was flat. He glanced down at his hands and saw they were covered with Weldon's blood. The front of his richly embroidered tunic was blood soaked, too. "I don't know how many. A lot, I'd guess. Not near so many as Nasim-Guri has lost, the soldiers tell me. Too many, though. There are more dead and wounded in the villages between here and the Nasim-Guri border. Too many."
 
They didn't move and didn't speak for several minutes. The wind fluttered the edge of the tarp, revealing the bare feet of several corpses...

Edition details

• Publisher: Tor Books
• Publication date: 2006
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0765308223
• ISBN 13: 9780765308221
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 320