Wurm War

by Christopher Golden

  Foxheart seemed not to understand.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “I don’t understand what—”

  The scout rushed up the aisle. “Listen to me. It’s gone … the Malleus Guild headquarters is gone … destroyed by the Wurm as they progress north.”

  Foxheart went white, his mouth agape. All the argument was drained from him.

  “Listen to me, all of you!” the scout shouted, stumbling in a circle, trying his best to be certain that every guild member could hear his warning. “The Wurm are coming, of this there is no doubt, and they are stronger than we first imagined. Much, much stronger.”

  With his warning finally spoken, the scout’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body went limp, and he fell unconscious in the middle of the aisle.

  The meeting chamber fell silent.

  Chapter Six

  Still clinging to the back of the stolen prison transport, Ivar lost himself deep in meditation. His muscles burned with effort, his mind with the need to sleep. His whole body seemed to itch. Hunger and thirst assailed him. But with his meditation he was able to retreat within himself, to separate himself from those physical troubles. It was necessary if he was to hold on.

  But he knew that he could not hold on indefinitely. He had thought Grimshaw might land to find something to eat or drink, but it was clear the mage was driven by obsession and would not stop until he had reached his goal. Ivar had no choice. He would cleanse his mind and relax his body through meditation, and as soon as the purification of his thoughts was complete, he would find his way into the transport. He could not wait until Grimshaw reached the Wurm invaders. He had to force Grimshaw to bring the craft down to land.

  Ivar’s eyes snapped open, senses alert to a sound that seemed to come from all around him; a sound only too familiar. The flapping of leathery wings. His flesh reacted quicker than thought, darkening the surface of his skin so that he would blend with the hull of the transport.

  Grimshaw would not need to travel all the way to Tora’nah to meet with the Wurm, it seemed. Raptus’s army was already moving north, and far more swiftly than Ivar would have expected.

  The Wurm darted through the air around the transport, harrying the vehicle, preparing either to force Grimshaw to land or to burn him out of the sky. Ivar was grateful that he was invisible to them, at least for the moment. He felt his warrior’s blood pulse in his veins, but there was nothing he could do at that moment, trapped, clinging onto the back of the craft as the enemy circled its prey.

  The transport began to slow and then to halt, hovering over a barren section of rocky hills and skeletal forest.

  What are you doing, Grimshaw? The madman had just made their craft an even easier target for the Wurm.

  “What have we here, brother?” he heard one of the beasts growl, wings flapping as he hovered in the air before the transport. Another of the Wurm soldiers had joined him, hanging in the frigid air, his own pounding wings keeping him aloft.

  “Easy prey,” the other snarled, and the two laughed in unison, streams of fire and steam erupting from their mouths and nostrils.

  As if their amusement were infectious a third Wurm flying about the craft began to laugh as well, the sound of their humor like stones being ground together. Liquid fire bubbled in their mouths as they prepared to engulf the transport in the flame from their gullets. Ivar experienced a complete sense of helplessness, an emotion that was not common for him, and he felt his rage grow.

  He began the prayers to his ancestors that would help him on his way to the life after this one, a life free of fire-breathing lizards and dark wizards.

  From the corner of his eye he saw it, another Wurm flying in from the south to join its brethren; only this one appeared much larger. Ivar nearly lost his grip when he recognized the new arrival, head clad in a helmet of black metal, fire like lava dripping from his maw.

  Raptus.

  “What do we have here?” Raptus thundered, as he darted back and forth in front of the craft.

  Ivar narrowed his eyes. Though he could not pinpoint what, precisely, it seemed to him that there was something different about the Wurm. He had encountered Raptus in the hellish realm of Draconae, where he had briefly been imprisoned in the volcanic city of the Wurm.

  “The afternoon meal,” one of the soldiers muttered, snickering under his breath, smoke rising from his nostrils.

  Raptus sneered, opened his jaws, and let loose an enormous gout of flame that engulfed the soldier in midflight. The soldier shrieked in pain as the flames spread across his skin, charring his wings. Unable to stay aloft, the burning Wurm spiraled down, down and down, leaving an oily trail of smoke in his passing.

  “This is a time for war,” their general snarled, looking at the other soldiers flying about the transport. “There is nothing at all amusing about that.”

  Then it dawned on Ivar why Raptus seemed different. The Wurm commander was somehow larger, his wingspan wider, the scarlet armor that adorned him seemingly too small for his overly muscular frame.

  How odd, Ivar thought.

  “You fools are wasting time with a single craft!” Raptus bellowed at his soldiers. “Incinerate it!”

  The two Wurm soldiers snarled and clicked their tongues in primal communication. They roared to one another and then began a sweeping arc that would bring them around in a moment to the transport. Already the furnaces inside of them were burning, fire streaming out of their jaws.

  Ivar steeled himself. If Grimshaw did not do something in a second or two, he was going to have to throw himself off the transport and hope that the fall did not kill him. Just as he was about to jump, the door on the side of the transport banged open, and the former constable emerged.

  “General Raptus, wait!” Grimshaw shouted. “Call off your warriors! I wish to parley!”

  Raptus laughed, but at the very last moment he waved off the raiders and they veered aside, coming round to wait, wings beating the air.

  “I am Raptus, son of Tarqilae. I would sooner parley with demons than with a mage. But I confess I am curious. A lone mage traveling toward the invading horde rather than away. You have half a minute to explain. Half a minute before you die screaming.”

  “And grateful for it, General,” Grimshaw said, his voice raised to be heard over the flapping of Wurm wings. “I am Arturo Grimshaw—a fugitive from the so-called justice of the Parliament of Mages, and I bear you no ill will. On the contrary, I think that I might be very useful to you. We both desire vengeance, Raptus. I would be more than happy to deliver all of Parliament into your clutches.”

  Raptus tilted his head to one side, sunlight glinting off his helmet as he scrutinized the mage. “A fugitive? Your craft appears to be a cargo transport of some kind; what does it carry?”

  “It was supposed to carry me to prison,” Grimshaw replied, touching his chest with his flesh-and-blood hand. Ivar noticed that the crackling magical arm was no longer present and understood that the mage did not want to present any sort of threat to Raptus. “As I told you, sir, I am a fugitive, and have come in search of you, for I do believe we share similar views about the ruling powers of Terra.”

  A Wurm with a horribly scarred face spiraled down from the clouds. Ivar recognized this new arrival from his time on Draconae. “Give the word, General, and we’ll burn this pink-skinned fool and his craft from the sky.”

  Raptus raised his taloned hand. “Patience, Hannuk.”

  The general glided closer, and Ivar could smell the foul stink of the great beast. His nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burning heatstone.

  “You say you are a criminal,” Raptus said, addressing Grimshaw. “Tell me, what is your crime?”

  Ivar’s ears pricked up. He was curious to hear how the man would answer. He doubted that Grimshaw would share that he served the archmage, Alhazred, the mastermind behind the Wurm banishment to Draconae.

  “I was a former constable of the law that did not approve of the existence of a dangerous boy nam
ed Timothy Cade.”

  From where he watched, Ivar could see the physical reaction of the Wurm general. Raptus’s black lips pulled back from his razor teeth, and his eyes went wide beneath his helm.

  “I see, General, that you are familiar with him as well.”

  Raptus slowly nodded.

  “I believed that the abomination should have been destroyed,” Grimshaw continued. “But Parliament sided with the freak of nature, and thusly I was sentenced to rot in prison.” The former constable stroked the ends of his mustache. “As you can imagine, I no longer hold any allegiance to my former masters; in fact, I would rather like to see them, as well as the boy, destroyed.”

  Ivar could not believe what he was hearing. He knew Grimshaw to be evil, but he never imagined how loathsome the man could be. If he had the opportunity, he would have killed the mage just then. If there was one thing that made his blood boil with fury, it was treachery.

  Raptus made a low, chuffing noise in his throat, little bursts of flame spitting from his snout as he ruminated upon Grimshaw’s words. After several moments he turned to Hannuk. “Bring the mage. If he served Parliament, he may hold secrets that will be useful to us.”

  Hannuk gestured to the two Wurm soldiers. They flew at Grimshaw and roughly plucked him from inside the transport, carrying him off as easily as a hawk carried away its rodent prey.

  “What of the craft?” Hannuk asked.

  Raptus had been gliding down into the forest below. He did not look up or change course at all, but his shouted command echoed up to the heavens.

  “Burn it from the sky.”

  With several violent beats of his broad wings, Hannuk flew up in front of the transport, opened his jaws and spewed liquid fire that engulfed the craft. Ivar was at the back of the transport, protected from immediate harm, so he hung on as Hannuk let loose another blast of roaring fire. The transport began to burn quickly and listed to one side. Ivar held on with all his strength, so that he wouldn’t fall to the ground. Still maintaining his physical camouflage, he climbed onto the transport’s roof. The front of the vehicle was completely engulfed in flames that crackled and popped as they consumed metal and wood alike, fire crawling across the roof to where he now crouched. It would be almost certain death for him to leap from this height, but he saw no other alternative.

  Satisfied that his task had been completed, Hannuk bent his head and tucked his wings against his back, knifing through the air as he pursued General Raptus and the other Wurm. Others appeared from the clouds above, sentries that Ivar had not noticed before, and they whipped through the air, passing the burning transport on the way down. He counted five all told, and he wondered how many others were down on the forest floor, or flying among the trees … how many in the invasion force.

  The last of the Wurm that were following Hannuk paused, then circled the blazing transport, which now hung at an angle in the air, fiery debris falling from it to tumble into the forest below. This final straggler seemed strangely captivated by the sight of the burning craft. From what Ivar could tell, the Wurm soldier appeared young, and seemed to relish the sight.

  A violent tremor passed through the hull beneath the Asura’s feet and something groaned and snapped loudly from inside the transport. The magic would soon disperse from the burning vehicle, and nothing would prevent it from falling from the sky to earth.

  Ivar could think of no other way to survive this. He braced himself, standing in the only spot where fire had yet to burn. The heat of the craft’s skin beneath his feet was growing more intense, fueling his intentions. He dropped into a crouch, tensing his muscles. He reached for the knife within the sheath hanging from his belt, plucked it free, and with nary a thought he sprang from the surface of the sky craft to land upon the back of the Wurm soldier.

  The beast let out a roar of surprise.

  Ivar lay flat on its back, allowing its wings the freedom to flap so that they could stay aloft, and pressed the tip of his knife blade against the softer skin located just beneath the Wurm’s jaw line.

  “Calm yourself, Wurm,” Ivar whispered in its ear. “I mean you no harm and only require a means of transport to the ground below.”

  The Wurm continued to thrash, spinning itself around in the air in an attempt to dislodge its attacker. Ivar held fast, pressing the knife point deeper into the Wurm’s throat, this time deep enough to draw blood.

  “I will end your life before I allow you to dislodge me,” he warned, and the Wurm gradually began to calm, soaring around the burning sky craft as the magic at last left its wreck of a body, and it began to fall from the sky in flaming pieces.

  “Now take me down,” Ivar ordered.

  The young Wurm soldier was brash, but not a fool. He did exactly as he was told.

  Cassandra couldn’t stand the constant bickering anymore.

  She had left the Parliament chamber where argument, even though it was disturbingly obvious that this threat was against them all, had continued to reign. Quarreling ran rampant among the grandmasters, ranging from the types of spells and incantations to be used to defend the city to what color uniforms the combat mages should wear to indicate their allegiance. It was almost as if they argued just for the sake of it, and she could bear it no longer.

  The Xerxis was enormous, filled with winding corridors and high-ceilinged rooms that practically invited Cassandra in to rest her weary mind. Some almost succeeded, particularly one room that looked onto a lush garden. She would have loved nothing better than to walk the garden and lose herself in the rich greenery and invigorating fragrances of the wonderful place, but duty called.

  Through inquiries to various building sentries, she located the section of the Xerxis where the SkyHaven staff had been quartered and went to check on them. Everything appeared to be in order, Carlyle running things with amazing efficiency as always. The Order of Alhazred would continue to function from here, in their makeshift headquarters, until the threats were dealt with and SkyHaven had been inspected for any more potentially dangerous secrets.

  Relieved that their resettlement was going so smoothly and her presence was unnecessary at the moment, Cassandra slipped out a side entrance to wander the fabulous hallways and corridors of the Xerxis again. For a moment she felt pangs of guilt for not devoting herself one hundred percent to the approaching threat, but she had done much since the revelation that the Wurm were heading north and deserved a momentary respite.

  Edgar had brought word from the Cade estate that Verlis had survived the invasion at Tora’nah, along with some of the workers from the Forge and the mines there. The idea that they had crossed through Draconae to get back to Arcanum with a warning filled her with dread and awe. That sort of courage was precisely what would be required to face Raptus and his army.

  A painful knot began to form in the pit of her stomach as she recalled the bird’s report of a Wurm secret weapon, something that Raptus may have been looking for at Tora’nah. What had he called it? The Spawn of Wrath? Whatever it was called, it filled her with foreboding.

  Before the rook had departed, Cassandra had conveyed to Edgar the facts about their relocation from SkyHaven, and the most recent information about the sad fate of the Malleus Guild, and how the Wurm indeed seemed to be moving northward.

  Now she paused in her wandering and looked around. She hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going, just letting her feet guide her, but now Cassandra found herself in the center of an open lobby. In each of the four corners of the vast chamber was a large marble staircase leading up into an area lit by lanterns of ghostfire. She experienced nagging pangs of pity on seeing the flickering lights.

  When things had at last calmed down, she planned to voice her concerns about the use of the soul energies of deceased mages. Though it had been used for centuries as a source of illumination, Cassandra felt that after what she had learned in her and Timothy’s recent dealings with Alhazred, it might be time to put this particular practice to rest. She could just imagine th
e furor that would surely be stirred up in Parliament over this; but that was a worry for another time.

  Cassandra stood at the bottom of one of the four large staircases, peering up into the gloom at the top of the steps. These stairs must lead to chambers located inside the four corners of the Xerxis tower, she thought, remembering the spectacular view that she had seen from her sky carriage that morning as they approached. She had never realized that the towers were anything more than ornamental in design, and found herself drawn up the marble staircase.

  The stairs began to writhe beneath her feet, and she gasped in surprise. The stairs were moving on their own accord, undulating in such way that she was gently transported up the vast staircase with no effort on her part, higher and higher into the tower. There was more to these stairs than even she imagined, but they were so many and so steep that she was glad they had been enchanted, and that she did not have to climb them on her own.

  As she reached the top of the moving staircase, Cassandra saw that a sentry was posted, a female who seemed to be awaiting her arrival.

  “Mistress Cassandra,” the guard said, bowing at the waist.

  “Mistress Borgia is waiting for you in the watchtower.” She gestured toward yet another staircase that, if she was not mistaken, would take her up into the enormous stone cap that sat atop the ancient building, dwarfed only by the spire that rose up from the parliamentary chambers next door.

  “Thank you,” she said, approaching the stairs. Curiosity drove her up the staircase, which narrowed as she climbed higher, and at the end there was a golden door, and on the door there had been carved the shape of an eye, closed in rest.

  Cassandra tentatively passed her hand across the front of the sleeping eye, believing it to be a part of its locking mechanism, but the eye in the door did not recognize her, and thus did not open.

  “Hello?” she called, preparing to wrap her knuckles on the door’s surface, but before her hand could fall, the eye carved into the door came open to reveal a now staring orb.