Then came the pounding of wings overhead, the labored flapping. Darkness blotted out the sun. They’ve spotted us by now! she thought.
One of the Knights Eternal called out, howling like a wounded wolf.
Talon knew that howl. She had heard it from her father. It wasn’t a cry of warning or distress. It was a wyrmling call, a salute to fallen comrades.
They aren’t stopping, she realized. They don’t need to investigate. They already know what was done here.
The Knights Eternal flew off into the distance, wings flapping thunderously.
The Cormar twins both stuck their heads out from under their gruesome shelter at the same instant, peered up at the passing enemy.
Why can’t just one of them look? Talon wondered.
When the Knights Eternal were well gone, the Cormars whispered in unison, “They were carrying something—clutching bags.”
What could they be carrying that is so important? Talon wondered.
But the answer was obvious. The fliers were coming from Caer Luciare, heading toward Rugassa.
“Forcibles,” Daylan Hammer whispered.
The emir looked Daylan in the eye. “We must attack before the enemy can put them to use.”
Daylan clasped him on the shoulder. “We shall.”
15
* * *
THE BRAT
Greed is how a man motivates himself from inside. It is our lust that drives us to work long hours, to train hard for battle, to succeed.
But it is fear that motivates man from the outside. It is through terror and intimidation that a lord forces his servants to conform to his desires.
Do not be deceived. The humans sometimes try to motivate through other means, but they almost always fail.
—From the Wyrmling Catechism
It was well past midnight when Rhianna reached the horse-sisters with her treasure of forcibles. The sisters had broken camp and set off to the east, astride their blood mounts, riding swiftly.
It had been a generation since such a cavalry rode. Though they were but forty women with lances, bows, and blades, they were all Runelords, for each warrior had an endowment of brawn, one of grace, one of metabolism, and one of stamina. And each rode upon a war horse that was both well trained and endowed. In but a few short hours, they had traveled nearly a hundred miles in the night.
The sight of it made Rhianna giddy with hope. It was a small contingent in number, but great in power, and it brought to mind the glory of ages past.
Aside from the horses, there was little in the way of supplies. A wagon carried some food; another carriage of sorts followed bearing the wyrmling girl Kirissa.
Rhianna called out a greeting from the sky as she neared the troops, then swooped and landed in a flurry of wings.
She dropped the cask of forcibles onto the ground, produced a key still smeared with wyrmling gore, and pulled the chest open to reveal its contents. She was breathing hard.
Sister Daughtry climbed down from her mount, pulled off her war mask, and looked narrowly at the forcibles. “We can’t use that many. We have people willing to become Dedicates back at camp, but we don’t have the resources to care for them. For every Dedicate, we need at least a dozen people to till the soil, weave cloth, act as guards, and otherwise nurse them.”
She was right, Rhianna realized. The horse-sisters were fierce warriors, but they never had been large in number. Beyond that, they were spread out over thousands of square miles. It would take weeks just for them to assemble.
“The time will come when we have to look elsewhere for Dedicates,” Rhianna suggested. “You’re already traveling through Beldinook. We can take endowments here.”
Beldinook was a large country and wealthy. But Beldinook had long been an enemy to the horse-sisters, to Mystarria—and to the rest of its neighbors for that matter.
Old King Lowicker of Beldinook had once belittled the Earth King, Gaborn Val Orden, demanding a display of his powers.
Gaborn had proved his powers by summoning an earthquake, one which startled Lowicker’s horse, causing him to fall. Lowicker died from the injury, and his daughter Rialla had nursed her hatred for House Orden. Because of her frequent tantrums, people had called her “the Brat.” She died only a week into her short reign, and a younger sister, Allonia, took the throne in her place. But Allonia’s foul temper exceeded Rialla’s. So when the kingdom fell to her, the title “the Brat” came with it.
Allonia was her father’s daughter in every way. Once the Earth King had passed away, she struck quickly and in concert with Gaborn’s enemies. She managed to carve out a fine chunk of Mystarria in that manner.
Rhianna suspected that Sister Daughtry would be pleased at the idea of taking Beldinook. But Daughtry only frowned. “You would have me become another Raj Ahten, strengthen myself by taking other kingdoms?”
“No,” Rhianna said. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized that they would be forced to deal with Beldinook. “Beldinook has long been a torment to all of its neighbors. It boasts the finest steel and the largest cavalry in the world. And with the fall of Mystarria, it also boasts the strongest castles. You will need those castles to protect your Dedicates. That is the one great weakness of the horse-sisters: you love the open plains and your pavilions, but you have few strongholds stalwart enough to house Dedicates.
“More importantly, the Brat of Beldinook will live up to her name. She has always been eager for conquest. If she gets her hands on some blood metal, you know that she would not spare you. It is only by overwhelming this enemy that we can hope to retain power.
“So we must strike first. Your horse-sisters could drain endowments from the strongest lords in her realm, turning their strengths into your strength. Her serfs will take care of your Dedicates. Her steel must become your steel. Her fortifications must become yours.
“Taking them does not make you into another Raj Ahten. He took endowments to gratify his own lusts. We will take them to save the world.”
“And what kind of world will it be?” Sister Daughtry asked. “It was perilous enough when forcibles were rare. What will become of it if blood metal proves so common that any man with a pair of dogs can make himself into a Runelord?”
“I can’t say,” Rhianna replied. “But you and I know what kind of world it will become if the Brat and her allies take control.
“And the danger is real. I’ve seen a mountain of blood metal near Caer Luciare. Who knows how many more there might be? Who knows what new veins of ore might lie exposed within Beldinook’s borders—or those of her allies in Internook? Right now, the brutish warlords of Internook may be digging up their own hills of blood metal and dreaming of conquest. Or perhaps in Indhopal some band of cutthroats has already seized a nation and is eyeing a million potential Dedicates in its own realm.
“My heart tells me to move slowly, to be generous and optimistic, to take only as many endowments as we need. But who knows how many endowments we need? The safest course—the only wise and sane course—is to seize the world by the throat while we can.”
Sister Daughtry looked dully at the forcibles. Reluctantly, she conceded. “We go to fight an army of wyrmlings. My warriors are strong, but they will need to be stronger still. I see no flaw in your argument. I only wish that such arguments did not need to be made. I fear that children in Beldinook will see what we do, and think us evil. Beldinook is a giant of a nation, a sleeping giant. We wake it at our own peril.”
The journey to Castle Lowicker did not take long. Two hours past dawn, the horse-sisters had crossed the leagues, and all too soon the riders found themselves outside a great fortress, sitting on their tired mounts, peering up at the massive walls.
As fortresses go, there was none larger in a thousand miles—at least nothing of human make. Castle Lowicker had been growing for two thousand years, and now it sprawled atop a great long hill in tiers. The imposing outer walls stood a hundred and twenty feet high and were topped with crenellations. A
t the foot of the outer wall stood a lake.
This was no ordinary castle. It had been erected to withstand the onslaught of powerful Runelords, and thus the outer walls were well plastered, so that even the most powerful lord could not get a fingerhold between the stones. The lake provided safety from siege towers.
Atop the walls, ballista towers had been erected every eighty feet, and the ballista bows were made of fine Sylvarresta steel. The ballistae were made in the style of Toom: a cranking winch would let a man tighten them, and then the whole ballista was mounted upon a seat that pivoted so that the marksman could quickly adjust his aim to the right or left, while the bow itself was perfectly weighted and could be raised and lowered. Thus a well-trained marksman could swivel quickly to take aim on any attacker and send a bolt flying.
Within the outer walls, the city rose in sections, seven walls in all, climbing more than a thousand feet above the plains. At the very crown of the hill stood the lord’s tower, where in days of old dozens of far-seers had watched from the highest ramparts, and within the lord’s tower was the Dedicates’ keep; nearby stood a broader, squatter tower—the graakerie, where the castle’s messengers were housed alongside their giant flying reptiles.
The walls atop this majestic fortress were alive with soldiers—archers and marksmen by the thousands. Rhianna had never seen so many warriors gathered in one place.
“It looks like an ant mound,” Sister Daughtry said. “The troops must have discovered that they have wyrmlings on their border. They’re on high alert.”
“We’ll never breach those walls,” one of the horse-sisters said. “It doesn’t matter that we’re Runelords.”
“It looks like a good place to take endowments to me,” Rhianna countered.
Sister Daughtry shook her head. “How do you propose that we take it? Those archers will make pincushions of us. I feel very small, squatting out here.”
Rhianna studied the walls. Forty Runelords would find it hard to take the place. But the castle had its weakness. It had not been made to defend against an aerial attack. Until now, there had never been a need for such defenses.
“Give me a moment,” Rhianna said. She steeled her nerve. Then she flapped and rose into the air, lazily, like a graak gaining altitude. She climbed in a spiral, winging above the outer walls, high above all of the walls, until she was fifteen hundred feet in the air.
She found currents to her liking up there, warm thermals just beginning to rise from the plains, and she rode them like a graak, her great leather wings held taut as she glided above the uppermost tower.
And then she dove, plummeting at eighty miles an hour.
There were no defenses to stop her from above. The archers on the outer wall had steel bows and the marksmen had their ballistae, but there were no defenders atop the lord’s tower—only a pair of far-seers keeping watch.
As she neared the tower, she poured on speed. Five flaps of her wings sent her hurtling through the air at over a hundred miles per hour, faster than a falcon. She banked and rolled, dodging the pair of paltry arrows that assailed her from one of the battlements far below, then stretched her wings to break her fall.
Atop the lord’s tower, the pair of old men who apparently still had endowments of sight backed away in terror; one of them grew so frightened that he tumbled over the railing.
Rhianna leapt past the last man, unlatched the portal from above, and leapt down into the tower, dropping forty feet, ignoring the ladder and breaking her fall with her wings.
She hit the floor running.
There were no guards to stop her. They were all down at the lower levels. She unlatched doors and raced through un-opposed, and with her endowments of metabolism it took her twenty seconds to reach the queen’s apartment.
They’re lucky that I’m not a Knight Eternal, Rhianna realized. Castle Lowicker is indefensible from the air. Which means that I must hunt the Knights Eternal down and slay them one by one, as quickly as possible, lest they come and kill my Dedicates.
A pair of guards stood at the queen’s door. To Rhianna’s surprise, in these days when so few men had any endowments, this pair was still strong.
But the battle was brief. The men had endowments, but had not seen a forcible in years. Most of those who had given them grace, brawn, and stamina seemed to have died long ago, so that they had mainly speed to their credit. A well-balanced Runelord needed strength and grace as well as speed. But these men were “warriors of unfortunate proportion.”
She took pity on them, and did not slay them. She broke one man’s arm when he tried to block a blow from her sword. She kicked the other savagely, smashing ribs, and left them both in a heap on the ground.
Better to leave them alive, she thought. They can vector their endowments to others, and make my people strong.
Inside the royal apartment, Allonia Lowicker was still asleep at this late hour, lying on a great four-post bed that could have slept a harem. Sheer curtains of lavender gauze hung like a net over above the bed, while its sheets and numerous pillows were all covered in whitest silk with lavender trim. The room was overly perfumed.
Queen Lowicker had never married. Rhianna discovered that she had a fondness for young maidens. Half a dozen of the naked creatures graced her bed.
They screamed like children and raced to cover themselves at the sight of Rhianna bursting through their door, with a bare blade in hand.
Allonia Lowicker stirred herself, looked up at Rhianna with puffy eyes. She was a young thing, not yet twenty-two years of age, and she was prettier than Rhianna had expected. Rumors of her older sister’s unfortunate appearance had prepared Rhianna for the worst.
“My,” Allonia Lowicker said, “aren’t you a lovely thing. Are they wasting forcibles on glamour nowadays?”
Rhianna had almost forgotten that she had taken endowments of glamour. She had always had a certain sterile beauty, but now it was much enhanced.
“Queen Lowicker,” Rhianna said, “surrender your realm.”
“To whom?” Allonia said.
“The horse-sisters of Fleeds.”
“Monsters to the east of me and Runelords to the west,” Allonia said. “What ever shall I do? Oh, I know. You want my kingdom? Well you can have it.”
Those who called her the Brat had spoken truly, Rhianna decided. There was a jarring petulant quality to this woman that Rhianna found disquieting. Almost, Rhianna wished that she could send the queen flying over the nearest parapet.
But the bravado was false. Rhianna could see that Allonia’s face was pale, and her heart was beating in her chest like a caged bird. Her eyes were puffy. Obviously she had not slept well. Perhaps she had been up worrying about her kingdom through the night.
“I’ll want your endowment as proof of surrender,” Rhianna said. “And you must also convince your troops to lay down their arms. Those monsters at your door, they’re called wyrmlings, and they’re worse than anything you might have dreamed. I can save you from them. I can save your people. But I can’t do it if I have to watch out for you over my shoulder.”
The two endowments of voice that Rhianna had taken must have done their trick, for tears sprang to Allonia Lowicker’s eyes, hot tears that went leaping down her cheeks in a stream.
“I know,” she said, as if relieved to be rid of her kingdom. “I’ll give it to you, whatever you want. Please, save my people.”
Wit, Rhianna decided. She had to take Allonia’s wit. A person who had given grace or stamina might be weakened, but they could still plot against you, still whisper into the ears of would-be conspirators. But a lord robbed of wit was nothing but a burden to those who cared for her—a creature that needed to be diapered and fed and sung to like a child.
“Wit,” Rhianna said at last. “I want your wit.”
Rhianna tried to demand the endowment stoically, but inside she felt that she was breaking.
I am becoming Raj Ahten, she thought. I am thinking as he thought, acting as he acted.
&nbs
p; She knew the danger. She had shed blood before, and been seized by a locus. Fallion had burned the creature up, and said that she no longer had a stain on her soul.
But Rhianna was walking a thin line. She was acting like a wolf lord.
“You can have it,” Allonia said. “With what I’ve heard about the feeding habits of our new neighbors, I don’t want to know what happens.”
* * *
By midmorning, the Brat had a rune branded on her forehead, and Rhianna had her wit.
Queen Lowicker had several facilitators on staff, and they were quick to press local jewelers and silversmiths into service, preparing forcibles. Rhianna herself took a dozen more endowments each of glamour and voice.
Some women gazed upon her now and grew sick with envy. They looked upon her lustrous skin, her radiant eyes, and they despaired of ever being loved, while men gaped at her and seemed almost beyond restraint, like men who are dying of thirst and are suddenly confronted with water.
Rhianna took a few more endowments from Lowicker’s nobles—sight, hearing, and touch, so that she would better find her way around when she breached the defenses of Rugassa, along with more brawn, grace, wit, and stamina.
Near noon, she went to where the wyrmling Kirissa was hiding from the sun. The wyrmling girl was forced to sit in an enclosed wagon, a crude carriage with windows that could be shuttered against the light.
Inside the wagon, Kirissa applied a salve to her sunburned skin. One of the horse-sisters had given it to her. She had not asked for it, and it seemed a great boon. In Rugassa, a wyrmling was expected to bear her pains stoically, as a sign of strength. No balm like this existed.
If the wyrmlings knew of such medicines, Kirissa thought, they would kill their masters and storm out of Rugassa, never to return.
So she rubbed it on the bridge of her nose and on her ears and cheeks and hands, the places where she’d burned the most. The burn was a raging fire, but the touch of the balm soothed it instantly.
The Wyrmling Horde Page 23
