Lord Despair opened a latch to the nearest door and found one of his guards. “O Great Wyrm,” the guard said, “we have brought more small folk to give you endowments, as you requested. They await you in the Sanctum.”
“Well done,” Despair said. “I shall be there shortly.”
The small folk. They could be both a cursing and a blessing. He considered the Wizard Fallion. There was a slight chance that the small folk would succeed in rescuing him.
But there was a way that Despair could keep track of him.
The Earth Spirit wishes me to choose, Despair thought, and so I will choose.
He immediately called his guards to escort him to the dungeons—to the cell of Fallion Orden.
Vulgnash sat over the wizard, a forcible in hand, filing a rune at its head. The room was as cold as an ice field with the north winds lashing across it. Vulgnash leapt up as Despair neared; he raised his wings to full span, as if in salute.
“What would please my master?” Vulgnash asked.
Despair peered down at Fallion Orden, who lay sprawled unconscious upon his belly. Frost rimed his collar, and he was barely breathing. Using his Earth Powers, Despair looked into Fallion’s heart.
Here was a man who dreamed simple dreams. Fallion did not want to rule the world. Lord Despair had never wondered what the young wizard might desire most of all, yet Despair knew that he would need to know.
There it was in his imagination—a small fishing boat, a coracle that he could row out onto the sea at dawn, and there cast his nets and hopefully be done with work for the day by noon. He wanted a cottage at the edge of the sea with a fine thatch roof to keep out the winter rain. He wanted children sitting on his knee as he told them bedtime stories. He wanted a wife to hold at night, and to cherish.
Such simple things. So repulsively wholesome.
“Yes,” the Earth’s voice whispered deep inside him. “This one is worthy to inhabit the world to come.”
Despair raised his left arm to the square and said, “The Earth hide you. The Earth heal you. The Earth make you its own. I choose you through the dark times to come.”
When it was done, Despair stared down at the wounded boy.
Now you are truly mine, he thought. Wherever you might go, I will be able to find you.
“Vulgnash,” he said. “It is time to begin the tortures in earnest. Give another hundred endowments of compassion to Fallion Orden today. It is time to force Fallion to tell us what we need to know.”
17
* * *
FLAMES
Despair is the greatest of all teachers. Others may instruct you in some matters, but Despair can teach you all that you need to know.
—From the Wyrmling Catechism
The Emir Tuul Ra felt taut with anticipation. The five heroes had spent the better part of the morning racing toward Rugassa, and he knew that they were near. He felt so overwhelmed with emotion that he wanted to shout.
There was hope, yes. Finally the people of Caer Luciare were going to strike back against Rugassa. But there was fear in his heart, also, and mourning. His people had been driven from their homes, from the very world of their native birth, and now squatted beyond its borders, plotting revenge.
But revenge would be hard to come by. The wyrmlings had a mountain of blood metal, and they knew how to bend it to their will. In a matter of days, the wyrmlings would have it in their power to take so many endowments that the folk of Caer Luciare might never be able to break the wyrmlings’ stranglehold on the world.
So there was a moment, a brief time that they might be able to strike. Today was the day.
Preparations were being made. All morning he had felt endowments being vectored to him.
Metabolism, that was most of what he got. Seven endowments of speed. Alun must have taken the endowments from his dogs. The emir was not the strongest in the group, far from it. But he would be the quickest, and he had learned long ago that great speed is enough in battle.
But now his quiver was full. The endowments had stopped coming an hour ago, though he could still see Talon growing in power from moment to moment.
They raced now along a broken road. In the binding of the worlds, the old human highway had crossed through the wyrmling wastes. The road was here, and it was serviceable for the most part. But in many places rocks had risen, creating a nasty path, and thorns and thistles burst up through the ground everywhere. Still, it had been beaten down some. It was rife with wyrmling sign. Troops had marched over it recently.
So the company raced through open fields in the lowlands, and over wooded hills, each of them running with superhuman speed.
The Cormar twins took the lead, sprinting side by side. They moved like dancers, each stepping forward with the left leg at precisely the same time, each swinging the right forward the same.
Yet their movements were too choreographed. They weren’t dancers. They were marionettes, moving to a single will. The sight of it was somehow profoundly disturbing. The strangeness of it only seemed to grow.
The group stopped for a brief meal just after noon. There was little in the way of formal plans. They hoped to meet up with Rhianna, find out what news she might have to tell. But if they did not, so be it. Their assault would continue today, as soon as Talon and the Cormar twins finished getting endowments vectored to them.
So the five stopped at midday and set a small fire, a gleaming gem of heat and light that beckoned to the emir as always, and they prepared to cook some meat. It had been easy enough to come by. As they had run through the woods, a pair of grouse had fluttered up at their sides.
With his endowments of speed, time seemed to have nearly stopped, and the emir watched them—fat and ponderous and tempting—as they sought to escape.
He altered his course in midstride, leaping into the air, and harvested the pair of them, and now after pulling off the skin and putting them on a skewer, he went down to wash his hands in a nearby brook.
Talon squatted beside the stream among some willows and splashed water under her arms, then ran it over her face and neck as best she could.
The emir was downstream from her a pace. He washed off his own hands quickly, scrubbing them with coarse sand from the bottom of the stream, then let the dirty water glide away for a moment. He then cupped his hands and took a long draught, unconcerned that the water might be mingled with Talon’s dirt and sweat.
It wasn’t that he didn’t notice her muddying his water. But he was used to fighting in skirmishes with small bands of men. He was used to tight quarters and a lack of privacy.
The emir leaned back on his heels, and sighed. “I thank the Powers that be that I have lived to see this day,” he said, glancing over to Talon. “Finally, I hope to free my brother, Areth Sul Urstone.”
Areth Sul Urstone was not his brother by blood, of course, only a brother-in-arms. They were as close as two men can be.
“It is a great day,” Talon replied.
“Hmmm . . .” The emir signaled his agreement, then peered at Talon inquisitively. “It is said that you knew Areth’s shadow self?”
“I did,” Talon agreed. “We called him Gaborn Val Orden, the Earth King.”
“I have never known another man like Areth Sul Urstone,” the emir said. “Never could there be a better friend. He was not just generous. Some men can share what they have. But Areth was the kind who would give you all that he had and regret that he did not have more to give.
“It was not that he was courageous. Many men can go into battle with little fear. But Areth had a kind of courage that went deeper than that. He had the courage to stick to his principles, regardless of the consequences.
“It was not that he was honest, it was that he was unwavering in his faithfulness. Areth Sul Urstone’s word was stronger than flint.
“Tell me,” the emir asked, “is that the kind of man that he was on your world, too?”
Talon thought for a moment, as if trying to decide how to frame her answer. “He
was all of that and more. He was a man of such deep compassion that it became a vice. He loved others too much for his own good.”
“Aaaah,” the emir said. “I have always believed that of Areth, too. He suffers when others are hurt. Many times I have thought, ‘I should gather a band of men, break into Rugassa, and set him free.’ Yet I knew what it would cost. Even if we managed to free him, the backlash would have been unbearable. The wyrmlings would have struck so hard, Caer Luciare would have been destroyed—and Areth would never have been able to be at peace with that. Indeed, I think that he would rather have rotted in his cell for an eternity, knowing that others lived with some degree of peace and prosperity, than to be set free.
“That is why I captured the wyrmling princess. I hoped that by taking her, I could buy his life.”
“And do you think he is even still alive?” Talon asked. “I mean today—now that the wyrmlings have got their princess back?”
“I hope so.”
“And if he is alive, is he still the man that you knew fourteen years ago?”
The Emir Tuul Ra did not answer quickly. He lowered his head in thought. Talon knew that men could be broken. With enough pain and deprivation, even the strongest men turned into craven animals. And the tormentors of Rugassa had turned the breaking of men into an art form.
“I can only hope that my brother is alive, and that there is something left of what he once was. I intend to set him free, and if the people will accept him, I hope to see him sit upon the throne. No man is more deserving.”
“He is fortunate to have you as a friend, and an ally,” Talon said.
The emir did not like compliments. He never quite knew what to say.
“Now,” the emir said, “I must ask you of this Fallion Orden—the son of his shadow self, the son that, in my world, at least, he never had. What kind of man is he?”
“He is a young man,” Talon said. “I have followed at his back since I could crawl, and so I know him well, perhaps as well as anyone alive. . . .”
“So I have heard,” the emir said.
“Everything that you have said about the father, is doubly true of Fallion. . . .” Here she hesitated.
“But?”
“Everything but the compassion,” she admitted at last. “The Earth King’s compassion was the stuff of legend. He loved his people so much that in the end he gave his life for them, and went traveling the world, seeking out good and humble folk, and bestowing his blessings upon them. Even long after the threat was over, he kept traveling the world, never able to rest.”
“Perhaps,” the emir said, “he could not rest because he knew that the war was not over. My father said that sometimes when a war is coming, you can smell it far off, years or decades in the brewing. Other times it is thrust upon you at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes,” Talon said. “I suppose that could be. Anyway, Fallion is not like his father. He loves, but not indiscriminately. He is a man of . . . tremendous discipline.”
Talon seemed not to want to say more, but the emir said, “He is a flameweaver, is he not? It would take tremendous discipline for one like him to lead a normal life, to take on the responsibilities of a home and family, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Talon said. “Yet you manage it, don’t you?”
“I have never given myself to the flames,” he said after a long moment. Then he glanced back toward his pair of roasting grouse.
The fire licked their flesh, and their fat dripped into the flames and sizzled, sending up a sweet-smelling smoke.
“It’s time,” he said. “I’ll be facing Vulgnash, a Knight Eternal, a flameweaver of considerable power.”
I should have begun this instruction years ago, he thought.
“Wait!” Talon said.
The emir turned to her.
“You’re a generous man, too,” she said hesitantly. “You’re planning to end your life when this is over, give back your endowments—aren’t you?”
“Let us just say,” he answered, “that if you see me fall in battle at the end of the fight, do not come back to save me.”
“Do you think that that is what Siyaddah would want?”
“I think that she would be hurt,” the emir said, “but in time she would think of me less and less often.”
“I think that some pain can never die,” Talon argued.
“Whatever happens to me,” the emir said, “tell her that I died valiantly, in battle.”
“What if I don’t want you to die in battle?” Talon asked. Tuul Ra had no answer for that.
He rose, and climbed up from the cattails at the edge of the brook. He went beside the small fire. Little smoke came from the dry wood, and it was being dispersed by a light wind and by the trees.
In fact, the wind was strong enough that the flames sputtered with every gust, as if the fire would go out.
He had always felt uneasy around fire. He’d always been aware of how it pulled at his sanity, sought to command him. But today he felt more wary than ever.
He had learned what kind of man he had been on the shadow world—faithless, brutal, an enemy to all of mankind.
Of course, that’s not me, is it? That was someone else, in another life.
But somehow it felt like him.
Fire was the connection. Fire was always there, at the edge of his consciousness, calling to him: Use me. You need me. You are not whole without me, and I am not whole without you.
I was the most powerful flameweaver in the history of the shadow world, the emir thought. And I could be the most powerful in mine.
Yes, the fire seemed to whisper, its bright tongues speaking to some primal part of the emir’s soul, piercing the base of his brain. You could be powerful. The world needs you to be powerful, to give yourself to the flames. How else will you conquer the wyrmling hordes?
How else indeed? Tuul Ra wondered.
It is a small matter, the fire whispered. Step into the flame. Give yourself to me.
It was a temptation. It had always been a temptation. Tuul Ra often suspected that his skills could blossom if he but let them. He’d dared imagine himself fighting the wyrmling horde, striding into Rugassa with a ball of sunlight balanced in his hand, one so bright that it would make the wyrmlings’ eyes sizzle in the backs of their heads.
They are an evil people. Someone needs to destroy them.
The emir knelt in front of the fire, as if before an altar, and gazed into the flames.
Filled with curiosity, Talon, Daylan Hammer, and the Cormar twins all gathered around him.
The emir had long been able to bend smoke to his will. It was a talent he had noticed in childhood. And he could make flames rise up and dance like snakes at his command. But it was not a gift that he lusted for, or that he took pride in.
He studied the flames now. His pair of grouse was cooking unevenly. He sat staring at the flames, tried to twist them upward and to the south, so that the birds would cook more evenly.
But after what seemed like several moments, nothing happened. Fire was aware of him, of that he felt certain. He was drawn to it, as it was drawn to him. But it would not bend to his will.
“You can’t just force it,” Daylan Hammer said. “Fire always requires a sacrifice. Go fetch some wood. Try building it up.”
“I’ll get some,” the Cormar twins said in unison, and they glanced at each other, laughed maniacally, and then leapt up and raced into the brush, each step choreographed, each move perfectly matching the other.
The emir considered waiting for the wood. But he knew that wood was not the only sacrifice that might be given. He reached up to his neck and pulled at a leather cord so that a sheepskin pouch popped out from beneath his ring mail. He opened the pouch and dumped a lock of hair into his hand, black and shiny.
He tossed the hair in, watched the fire consume it greedily, tiny flames flickering green and blue as they consumed the oils in the hair.
It had been the last memento from his dead wife.
In the hissing of the flames he heard the words “Serve me.”
“I will feed you,” he replied. “You may have my service, but not my soul.”
18
* * *
A GATHERING OF HEROES
Joy is the object of our creation. When one is united with a wyrm, it produces an abundance of joy. Therefore, always conduct your affairs in a way that makes you worthy of a wyrm.
—From the Wyrmling Catechism
Once Talon and the others had finished eating and broken camp, the emir kicked the coals from the fire off into the nearest bushes; seemingly with a thought the fire raced among some dry leaves and began licking the trunks of the nearest oaks.
What good will it do him, she wondered, to give himself thus to Fire? All it will do is warn the wyrmlings. They’ll see the smoke.
Daylan watched the flames for a long moment and said softly, “It is written that Raj Ahten fed his fires day and night, burning entire forests. I suppose that such sacrifices must be made if you are to gain his powers.”
“It is not much of a sacrifice,” the emir said. “There is a blight upon the land. The trees will be dead within a month anyway, I fear, and then the first spark would set this whole land alight.”
“Sooner than a month,” Daylan said, “unless we can break the wyrmlings’ hold upon the land.”
Talon did not have any idea how that might be done. She wasn’t sure that Daylan knew. How were the wyrmlings even poisoning the land? Was it some sort of rune lore, like the reavers had used at Carris in her father’s day?
The Cormar twins laughed at some private joke, then sprang off along the road, their steps perfectly matched, their arms swinging in unison.
We can’t be far from Rugassa, Talon thought, though she could see no sign of it yet.
They raced on with renewed fury, running forty miles in the next hour, until sweat weighed down Talon’s tunic. They stopped to drink at streams along the way, but each time it was only a gulp, stolen quickly, and then they were off again.
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