It was reavers, tens of thousands of them, marching roughly toward her. In the distance, they looked like great black beetles, though Rhianna knew that they were not small. Each reaver weighed more than an elephant.
As she neared, the sound of their marching feet made the earth tremble and groan; the clashing of their carapaces against the ground was like weapons clanging upon shields.
Rhianna had never seen a reaver. They were the stuff of legend, creatures that lived deep in the Underworld. She wanted a closer look, and with Vulgnash following, she wanted him to get a good look at them, too.
The reavers are marching in almost the right direction, she realized. In a day they could well be at Rugassa’s walls. What would the wyrmlings make of the threat?
Rhianna swooped lower, dropping within a hundred feet of the ground, and winged toward the reavers. The cloud rising from the ground smelled of dust and some strange musky scent.
Each reaver had four legs for walking, and two heavy arms that they used to bear weapons—great long hooks called “knight gigs,” or enormous swords that could flatten a horse and rider with a single blow. Most of the reavers were gray-black in color, and thus were common fighters. But here and there among the hive she spotted smaller reavers, reddish in color, carrying bright crystalline staves. These were the scarlet sorceresses.
Other creatures marched near the ends of the line—enormous spidery creatures that carried packs upon their backs, and enormous white wormlike creatures that she recognized as “glue mums.”
The reavers are coming for a full-fledged war, Rhianna realized. She had an almost primal fear of reavers. It was the fear of such creatures that had driven her ancestors to develop their rune lore in the first place. It was the fear of them that had caused the Runelords to build their vast fortifications.
It was tales of the depredations of reavers that had kept her awake with nightmares as a child.
So she swooped low above the reavers, and watched as the creatures raised their heads and hissed.
The reavers had no eyes in their heads. But that did not mean that they could not see. They had phillia dripping from their chins and from their bony ridge plates, and with these they sensed her presence, by scent and motion. The hissing noise came as they raised their abdomens and sprayed odors into the air, smells that they used to warn their neighbors.
She flew above the reavers, redoubling her speed, for fifteen miles. That is how long their column was. She estimated their numbers at fifty thousand strong.
How will Vulgnash like this? Rhianna wondered.
She kept flying, looking over her shoulders.
Vulgnash still followed, his blood-colored wings flapping vigorously, but he seemed to slow into a glide above the reaver horde, and finally wheeled about.
It was still midafternoon when he began to recede quickly, racing northeast toward distant Rugassa.
Her hunter had turned back.
For a long hour, as time is measured by the sun, Rhianna continued to wing away from Vulgnash, lest he renew the chase. To her, it felt like six hours or more.
At last she reached the Alcair Mountains, and flew to a huge white pine that had been taken by lightning.
The skies above were the perfect blue of a summer afternoon, and the world at large seemed as it should be. The starlings and wild pigeons that flew up from the pines sang their songs, seemingly unaware of Rhianna’s desperate plight.
What will I do? Rhianna wondered.
My love is still in the dungeons of Rugassa, in the hands of the wyrmlings.
Rhianna felt sick with anguish.
There seemed to be only one place to go—to the horse-sisters. But what could they do? Grant more endowments?
Despair had more than she did, and he had the powers of an Earth King besides. She could not slay him. She dared not even try.
She felt overwhelmed by doubt.
She wondered if the Wizard Sisel might help. Daylan had said that he was abroad in the land, traveling to commune with the True Tree.
He’s had all day to find it, she thought.
But it was a long hike. A man of the warrior clans was expected to run a hundred miles in a day.
If Sisel left from Cantular at dawn, he’ll make it there by sundown.
The notion of going to see him pleased her. She longed to go to Castle Coorm and seek refuge beneath the One True Tree, and throw her problems upon the shoulders of the wizard and his guest from the netherworld.
But what can they do? she wondered.
The Bright Ones had never shown her any kindness as a youth; their laws forbade them to interfere in the affairs of lesser creatures like her—the so-called shadow people.
Appealing to the folk of the netherworld would do her no good, and while the wizard had strong protective magic, he had never gone into battle.
Worse than that, she had no time to seek his aid. The reavers were marching toward Rugassa.
By tomorrow this time they could be there, Rhianna realized. What if they attack? They could kill Fallion.
I have to get him out of there, she thought.
But how do I kill an Earth King? Or failing that, how do I defeat one? What weaknesses does he have?
Rhianna thought back to the day that the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden had died. She had never been chosen by him, had never been put under his protection. But Fallion and Jaz had, and they had often recited the words that they had heard in their own minds during Gaborn’s final moments. It was part of the creed of the lords of House Orden: “Learn to love the greedy as well as the generous. Love the poor as much as the rich. Love the evil man as ardently as the good. And inasmuch as is possible in this life, when you are beset upon, return a blessing for every blow.”
In that instant, Rhianna felt almost as if Gaborn stood at her side, comforting her. She thought about Kirissa.
Could it be that he really had known that some Inkarran child would someday have to face the Wyrmling Empire?
She felt certain that he had.
Rhianna wondered about the Earth King. What were his weaknesses?
Borenson had said that it was his compassion.
Certainly, Lord Despair will not have that weakness.
And suddenly the answer hit her. Gaborn himself had given her the key.
I can’t face an Earth King, she thought. I should not even try. With his power, he’ll sense the danger. Which leaves only one alternative: return a blessing with every blow. So long as I present no danger, Despair cannot be forewarned of my attack.
Rhianna wondered, could she really free Fallion without harming a living soul?
Despair would not suspect such a bold move. Indeed, he was probably incapable of thinking of it. “Of course any intruder would kill the guards.” That is how he thought.
But Rhianna knew of at least one air vent that was not guarded.
She had great strength. She had the speed. She had the key to the wyrmling dungeon on a thong around her neck.
I have to try, she told herself.
With that she took to the air, heading for a brief stop in Beldinook.
20
* * *
DESPAIR
The Great Wyrm shall put down all enemies. No weapon created by man can prevail against her.
—From the Wyrmling Catechism
In the fortress at Rugassa, wyrmling guards furtively dragged Despair’s captives across the floor of the arena, laying them side by side, face up, arranged from largest to smallest, much as a fisherman might display the salmon that he had caught.
The wyrmling guards were terrified. The Death Lords hovered over the bodies, specters of shadow garbed in black robes of such thin weave that they were almost insubstantial. The Death Lords’ lightest touch had devastated even the most powerful of the Runelords, leaving them paralyzed and half-dead.
Even now, the Death Lords radiated an icy aura that seemed to penetrate even Despair’s thickest cloak, for it was not a cold that chilled the body so much as it chilled the soul
.
The touch of a Death Lord was the touch of the grave. Had they wanted to, the Death Lords could have slain their victims with that touch. But Despair had warned them to keep the people alive.
Yet the nearness of the victims, the tastiness of their souls, tempted the wights to feed. They were like dogs upon a hunt, scenting blood while the bloodlust is at its height, unable to forbear when a spear brings down a stag.
Thus, the wyrmling guards cowered, lest they brush up against the hunger-maddened wights.
For their parts, the wights loomed above the fallen ones, trembling with anticipation.
“What shall we do with them, Great Wyrm?” a wight asked, its voice a hiss.
Despair approved of their lust, for it served him well.
“Leave them to me,” Despair said.
“But . . . we hunger,” the wight complained.
In touching mortal flesh, the wights had tasted their victims’ spirits. For the wights, gazing down upon their victims would be like a man standing over a tremendous feast—where fresh loaves of warm bread filled the room with their scent, while delectable meats and pastries and puddings begged to be eaten—and being told that one might only have a single nibble.
“You have served me well,” Despair told them. “Go to your chambers. We have fresh captives from the wild—small folks whose souls are sweeter and more succulent than any wyrmling. The guards will bring some shortly.”
The wights scattered at his command. A wind seemed to rise, and they floated away upon it, their black garments fluttering.
Despair bent over his victims and studied their faces. Each of them had gone as white as a wolf’s tooth. Each of them bore a wound—a single place where a Death Lord had touched them. All breathed shallowly, and were in danger of dying.
But they were young and strong, and had endowments of stamina to boot. It was difficult to know if their stamina could keep them alive, for the touch of a Death Lord wounded the soul more than the body.
Most likely, Despair decided, they will each wake in a few hours, feeling more dead than alive. In time, even a wound to the spirit can heal.
“My lord,” a guard asked, “shall we execute any of them?”
Despair peered at his captives, wondering how best to use them. He recognized some of them. Despair had taken over Areth Sul Urstone’s body, and thus could access the prince’s memories.
The Emir Tuul Ra had been Areth Sul Urstone’s most beloved friend at one time. The emir’s people had been destroyed, and thus Despair considered that he might be of little worth as a political prisoner. Yet one never knew. Who ruled the folk of Caer Luciare now?
Vulgnash had killed their king, and Areth was his heir. That meant that they had no king at the moment. Had the people chosen the emir to act as regent?
It would have been a wise choice, Despair considered.
Thus, the emir had possible worth as a political prisoner. The folk of Caer Luciare might offer bribes for his release. But there was a greater hope.
Why had the emir come? To save Areth Sul Urstone alone? Or could he have, in his short span of time, forged some kind of bond with Fallion?
That was the question that nagged Despair. Who among these would Fallion value most? Who might he want to save?
Daylan Hammer of course had lived for an eternity. Despair had killed him time and time again, but his spirit was strong, and within days of his death, he would re-corporate.
How much has Daylan taught Fallion? Lord Despair wondered. What kind of bond have they forged?
He studied the girl that they had captured, leaned over her. She was petite for a girl of the warrior clans, and her hair was unusually dark. Most of those in the clans were redheaded, but her hair was a deep chestnut in color.
Despair reached down to her tunic, opened it slightly. She had runes of power branded there, just below her neckline.
Vulgnash had said that Fallion was traveling in company with two girls and a young man, another of the small folk. So Despair had suspected that one of his companions might come to his rescue, but he had not expected the two girls.
What luck! he thought. I have one of the girls, and Vulgnash will capture the other. Surely he loves one of them—perhaps both. What would he give up, in order to save them from the tormentors?
He reached down and stroked the girl’s cheek. Such a precious thing.
“Keep them all alive,” Despair said, “until I have a chance to question them.”
“Even this one?” a guard asked, kicking the wyrmling girl. Her guards had let her break free for just an instant in the battle, so that a wight might take her.
Despair considered. Of them all, it seemed least likely that Fallion would have forged a relationship with a wyrmling. But one never knew.
In the binding of the worlds, many folk had merged with their shadow selves—humans as well as wyrmlings. Had Fallion known this girl’s shadow self? Is that why the girl had turned against her own kind?
“Keep her alive, too,” Despair said.
“Will our dungeon hold them?” a guard asked.
“The cells were made to withstand even the toughest wyrmling warriors,” Despair said. “And though some of these may have the strength of ten men, their bones are as brittle as ours. They won’t be able to batter down the iron doors, and even the smallest of them could not squeeze between the bars.
“Still, put only one captive to a cell. Search them thoroughly and remove any weapons. Then chain them securely; allow none of the guards to get near their cells. Vulgnash alone will be their jailer.”
At that Despair hesitated. Vulgnash was off chasing the winged woman, and would soon return either with or without her. Despair hated consigning Vulgnash to such a mundane task as guard duty. But prisoners such as these demanded his skills.
Despair dared not let common troops near the Runelords.
Yet . . . there were other duties that Vulgnash needed to attend to. There was the uprising at Caer Luciare, where the foolish Fang Guards were taking endowments from their kin, believing that they could best Despair.
They had to be punished. Despair considered sending his troops, captained of course by his chosen warriors. But the Earth warned against it. None of his lords could withstand the new powers that had arisen at Caer Luciare—none but Vulgnash.
So Vulgnash would have to go. Despair needed to regain control of the blood-metal mines, for he sensed a coming danger. Not today, not even the next. It might be days away—a week. But an attack was coming.
There was nothing for it. Despair needed Vulgnash to pull double duty.
The guards lifted the prisoners and carried them down to the dungeons. Despair followed, to make sure that none of the captives woke or tried to escape.
Once they were all stripped of weapons, and shackled in their cells, Despair stopped to check on Fallion.
He was dead asleep, with the frost still riming his lips. The room was bone-numbingly cold.
Fallion cried out in his sleep, “No! Not that!”
Despair smiled and wondered what the tormentors were doing to the boy’s Dedicates. Fallion had been given another hundred endowments of compassion. Right now, the tormentors were in the process of removing the excess body parts from Fallion’s Dedicates. Despair had told the tormentors that in his opinion, any body part on a Dedicate was to be deemed “excessive.”
“Sleep, my little friend,” Despair whispered. “All too soon, we will wake you to your horror.”
Lord Despair left the prisoners to their cold cells, took a thumb-lantern, and went stalking to his throne room with his head bent, his brow furrowed, to await Vulgnash’s return.
The glow worms that adorned the ceilings and walls did not give enough light for his all-too-human eyes.
In his throne room he took reports from his facilitators. Despair had garnered his allotment of a thousand endowments, and Fallion had been given his. A test had been run on a wyrmling, to learn if by taking an endowment of sight from a huma
n, he might abide the daylight. The results were good, but not impeccable.
This pleased Despair. He ordered more endowments, but found that his supply of blood metal had been exhausted, so he sent his chief facilitator away, promising to get more ore soon.
Afterward, he went to his map room and brooded.
If my enemies are taking endowments, he realized, they must have Dedicates. All that I need to do to ease the danger is to send my troops to slaughter those Dedicates.
He considered the map, but it was of little use. So much had changed in the binding. His scouts were going out by night, telling of cities that had sprung up where none should be. His troops had already vanquished everything that they’d seen. But a hundred miles from Rugassa, all was unknown.
He did not have enough Knights Eternal to scout the lands nearby.
Lord Scathain will lend me some aid, he thought. A few thousand Darkling Glories should suffice.
His earth senses warned of dangers far off. That news gladdened him. Nothing would disturb his preparations for days.
Or is the danger really so far away? he wondered.
By sacrificing one of his chosen, he had disappointed the Earth Spirit that loaned him its powers. He knew that. He had felt the spirit withdraw from him, and when it came time to fight, he had felt it difficult to advise Vulgnash of danger.
It was a warning from the Earth Spirit itself. If Lord Despair did not submit to the Earth’s wishes, he might lose his protective powers.
He could not let that happen.
In the future, I cannot let one of my chosen people die, Despair decided. I must heed Earth’s every whim for the time being, regain its trust. I must act the perfect Earth King.
But it galled him. Lord Despair was on the verge of seizing control of worlds. Who was this Earth Spirit to tell him what to do?
It was late afternoon when Vulgnash returned, with the Darkling Glory at his side. The two seemed to have become fast friends. Quietly they approached Lord Despair’s throne.
The throne itself was a massive thing, with a back that rose ten feet in the air. It was carved from the bones of a world wyrm, and thus was yellow-white, the color of aging teeth.
The Wyrmling Horde Page 29
