BENEATH THE UGLY STONES
A scholar once told me that he could prove that men of renown lived longer than others. The wise woman of the village, the hero of battles, the acknowledged master of his craft-whether it be a baker or smith or only a chandler. Each lived an average of seven years longer than others of their kind.
“The secret,” he said, “is praise. We all need it. It is a tonic that restores both the body and soul. Children need it to grow up to be healthy.
“Unfortunately, the stupid and the wicked need it too, and so often are undeserving. Look to the motives of those who commit crimes, and all too often they do it hoping to raise themselves in the esteem of others.
“And it is also for the praise of others that good men do well. Thus our need for praise can prod us down the path of goodness, or onto the avenues of evil.”
— the Wizard Sisel
“King Urstone is groping for eels,” Warlord Madoc told his sons that night. “This plan of his-rescuing this otherworld wizard-it’s a vain hope. He is only forestalling the inevitable.”
“The death of his son?” Drewish asked.
“Aye, the death of his son,” Madoc said. The army had bedded down in the caves, but Madoc and his lads were in a small vale beneath the shadows of three huge sandstone rocks, each looking like some monstrous face, twisted and grotesque.
“You would think that Urstone would have forgotten him by now,” Connor said. “You would think that he’d have given him up for dead.”
“Mmmmm,” Madoc grunted in agreement. “It’s a point of honor with him. He wants to be seen as a man of compassion. He can’t let it be said of him that the wyrmlings love their children more than he does. It would make him somehow…callous, tainted.”
“Do you think the wyrmlings do love their children more than we do?” Connor asked.
Madoc scratched his painted chin thoughtfully. “A mother bear will do anything to protect her cubs. A wyrmling is no different. They have the instinct, and they’ve got it strong. Zul-torac is as bloody-handed a wyrmling that has ever led a war, but still he loves his daughter, and she is made all the more precious by the fact that he can bear no more.”
“Can a wyrmling really love?” Connor asked.
“Not in the way that humans do,” Madoc said. “But they have feelings-greed, fear. What they call love is bound up in those. Greed because they want to possess a child, to own something that is an extension of their lusts. Fear because they believe that children confer upon them a sort of eternal reprieve. They give their children as servants to Lady Despair in an unending succession, and so long as their lines continue, they believe that she will not punish them in the afterlife.”
Madoc didn’t really know much about such things. He had never really studied wyrmling philosophy. He was only repeating snatches of lore that were repeated around the campfire. He had never quite understood why the wyrmlings failed to wipe out Caer Luciare. Kan-hazur was just a worthless wyrmling child in his estimation. It only made sense that Zul-torac would hunt down the last of mankind, even if he had to hack his way through his own daughter to do so.
Yet for a dozen years now, the wyrmlings had let the city go. Never had it been attacked in force. The only incursions came from wyrmling harvesters that haunted the wood and fields outside the castle, taking only the unwary.
Yet Madoc had developed a theory as to why the wyrmlings didn’t attack, a theory so monstrous, he had never dared to speak of it openly, a theory that had been borne out-in part. Only now did he voice his concerns.
“My sons,” he said. “There is a good reason that the wyrmlings have spared us. They need mankind. Their harvesters need our glands to make their foul elixirs. King Urstone has never thought this through, but the wyrmlings would not dare to kill us all. Instead, they let us live, like pigs fattening in a pen, waiting for the slaughter. It isn’t our hostage that has saved us for so long. It is…necessity.”
Drewish smiled and gazed up into the air. Obviously, the idea amused him. “If we are but animals waiting to be harvested, why not cage us?”
Connor laughed. “Because it takes work to feed a pig, to keep him caged. Why not let the pigs feed themselves?”
“The caged animal is easier to kill.”
“There’s no sport to hunting a pig in its pen,” Madoc said with a smile. “And the wyrmlings are nothing, if not lovers of blood sport.”
It was true. The wyrmlings were bred for blood-lust. Without men to hunt, they would quickly begin slaughtering themselves. Madoc knew that the wyrmlings could indeed harvest glands from their own kind-but that would soon lead to bloody war.
Connor seemed uncertain. “Are you sure this is true?”
“Certain,” Madoc said. “My men captured a harvester last winter. It was only with fire and the tongs that I could pull the truth from him.
“And five weeks ago, we took another, and did him until he told the precise same tale.”
Madoc took a deep breath, gave the boys a moment while he let the information settle in. “Now, there are these little folk abroad. A village here, a village there. How many of them could there be?”
“Thousands,” Drewish guessed.
But Madoc gave him a knowing look and shook his head. “Millions, tens of millions. On the other world, there was a great kingdom in the north, the land of Internook, that was filled to overflowing. To the east, there were hordes of millions in Indhopal. In this world, there was a rare metal, used to make magic branding irons called forcibles, and with these, the lords of the land would take attributes-strength, speed, intelligence, and beauty from their vassals. Such lords became men of unimaginable power.”
Madoc held up a bit of red stone, showed it the boys in the starlight.
“What is that?” Drewish asked.
“Corpuscite,” Madoc said, “what the little folk called blood metal in their own tongue. It is used to make forcibles. It was rare in their world. But it is not so rare in ours. There is a hill of it near Caer Luciare. Already I have miners digging it up.”
He let the implication sink in. From Drewish’s unappreciative look, it was obvious that the boy didn’t understand the full implications of the discovery, but soon enough, he would.
Madoc was quickly learning that there were others like himself, hundreds who had lived separate lives on both worlds. Soon enough, he would find someone among the clan who had been a facilitator on otherworld, a mage trained to transfer endowments, and then Madoc would be in business.
“It is only a matter of time before the wyrmlings discover this, too,” Madoc said. “It is only a matter of time before they realize what our warriors might do if we unite these small folk under a single banner and lead them to war. It is only a matter of time, before they realize the threat that we pose, and try to smash Caer Luciare into oblivion!”
“What shall we do?” Connor asked.
Now was the moment for Madoc to speak his mind openly. “King Urstone is a fool, too weak to lead this people. So long as his son is held captive, he won’t risk attacking Rugassa. We must…eliminate the king.”
“How?” Drewish asked with a tone of relish in his voice.
“In the heat of the battle, tomorrow, when no one is looking,” Madoc said, “it would be a good time for a spear-thrust to go astray.”
Connor seemed shocked by the idea. He had always been a good lad, in Madoc’s opinion. Sometimes, such decency can be a fault.
“Stick with me,” Madoc said, “and someday soon, you shall rule a nation.”
“Which one of us?” Drewish asked.
Connor turned to him in obvious confusion. “Me, of course. I’m the oldest.”
“And I’m better able to lead,” Drewish countered, leaping to his feet, a dirk ringing from the scabbard at his knee.
Connor yelped, leapt back, and drew his own dagger. His jaw tightened and his muscles flexed as he prepared for battle.
Madoc stood up, placing himself between the two, and glared at Dr
ewish dangerously, as if begging him to attack.
“Two kingdoms,” Madoc promised. “One for each of you.”
THE ESCAPE
I often tell myself that I should never underestimate the goodness of the human spirit. Time after time, I have found that I can count on the mercies and tenderness of others. Perhaps it is because I constantly look for and nourish the good in others that I am too often dismayed to find abundant evil in them, too.
— Daylan Hammer
Daylan climbed the rope up to the grate and clung for a long moment as he listened for guards. There was only the sound of the wyrmling princess pacing in her cell.
There were no other prisoners so far down in the dungeon. Daylan had watched for them as he was borne through the hallway. So it was with little concern of being discovered that he felt around at the lock.
The good king had left him a key. It turned easily, and Daylan Hammer was free of the oubliette.
He climbed out, and stepped on a bundle on the floor. In it, he found his war hammer, a dagger, a flask and some food. The king hadn’t had the foresight to leave Daylan any clothing. He was still naked, covered with filth.
He carried his few goods past some cells, squinting as he peered in, somehow hoping that there might be food or clothing in one. Straw in the corners served as the only mattress that a prisoner down here might get, and with no other recourse, he finally went into an open cell and used some straw to scrape off the muck.
It didn’t help much.
I didn’t escape the oubliette, he decided. I brought half of it with me.
He imagined trying to break free of the city, a naked man covered in dung.
That will cause no small stir, he thought, fighting back a grim smile.
When he finished, he went to the cell of Princess Kan-hazur. A guttering torch revealed her. She was hunched in a corner, in a fetal position, with her elbows on her knees and her hands wrapped over her face. She peered at him distastefully from the corner of an eye. “You here to rape me?”
“No,” Daylan said as he tried his key in the lock. He felt a sense of relief as it clicked open. As he had hoped, the king had provided a master key to the prison.
“Too bad,” Kan-hazur said, “I could use a little sport. And from the looks of you, that’s all you could offer.”
Daylan did not smile at her dry wit. He was so befouled, she could not possibly have wanted him. She was only making jest of him.
“Where did you learn to talk so filthily?” Daylan asked.
“At my mother’s breast,” Kan-hazur said, “but nine years in this stink-hole has perfected my skills.”
Daylan searched her room. There was a bucket of water on the floor.
“I’ve come to rescue you,” Daylan said. He picked up the pail, let the water stream over him slowly, and washed off the filth as well as he could.
Kan-hazur stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not a fool. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true,” Daylan said. “I’ve set up an exchange of hostages-you for Prince Urstone.”
He had expected her to smile at this point, to weep or show some gratitude. But she merely glared at him and refused to move.
“Lady Despair teaches that the sole purpose of life is to teach you humility,” Kan-hazur said after a long moment. “And true humility only comes when you reach the realization that no one-mother, father, lover, ally, the Powers, or any force of nature-gives a shit whether you live or die.
“I have mastered humility.”
Daylan considered the implications of those words. The princess didn’t believe that her father valued her life, not enough to give up his own hostage, certainly. Was she right? The tone of her words was forthright. She was convinced.
“Believe it or not,” Daylan said, “I care if you live or die. I wish you well.”
“You don’t even know me,” Kan-hazur countered. “I am a wyrmling, and I am your enemy.”
“On some worlds,” Daylan said softly, “it is taught that the sole purpose of life is to master love, and the epitome of love is to love one’s enemies, to wish well those that hate you, to serve those who would do you harm. It is only through such love that we can turn enemies into allies, and at last into friends. I have spent millennia mastering love.”
Kan-hazur laughed him to scorn.
“Come,” Daylan said, reaching for her hand.
She refused to give it to him.
“Please?”
“You’re taking me to my death,” she said, “whether you know it or not. My father would lop my head off in front of you, just to prove how little he cares for me.”
“That’s a lie, whether you know it or not. Even a wyrmling cares for his child. It is in your blood. Your presence here has kept this citadel safe for nine years. If your father cared so little for you, he could have proved it a thousand times over, by attacking.”
Kan-hazur shook her head.
“Even if he does not love you,” Daylan said, “he has forsaken his flesh, becoming as the Death Lords. He cannot sire another heir.” The princess showed surprise, and hope flickered in her eyes. “Come, what have you got to lose?” Daylan asked. “We can stop in the market, get you some good meat before we go, let you feel the wind in your face and see the stars tonight. Even if your father comes to kill you, as you believe, wouldn’t it be worth the trip, just for one last pleasure?”
“Don’t trade me,” Kan-hazur said, suddenly fearful. “Take me outside the city, and let me go in the wild. I can find my way back to civilization.”
Daylan understood. By running away, escaping back to her own kind, she could start a new life. She might even be heralded as a hero for having escaped. But if she stayed, if he tried to trade her, she was truly afraid that her father would make an example of her.
“I won’t lie to you,” Daylan said. “If I let you go, I would lose any hope of winning back Prince Urstone.”
“Why?”
“Because, as I said, I have negotiated an exchange of hostages.”
“No,” she said. “Why won’t you lie to me? People always lie. Even humans. Lies are…necessary.”
He understood what she meant. Most people lied, trying to hide what they felt or believed about others. Such dishonesty was the foundation of civility, and Daylan agreed that such lies were necessary.
But other people lied only to manipulate. A merchant who hated a client might greet him as if he were an old friend, feigning camaraderie while hiding his own personal distaste.
And to gain greater advantage, he might even deceive the client, lying about the value of merchandise, or when delivery dates could be met.
Among the wyrmlings, such lies were a way of life.
And if Daylan had wanted to manipulate her, he could easily have promised to take her out of the city and let her go, and then reneged at an opportune moment.
“I will not lie to you,” Daylan said, “because in part I value you. A human is not a tool to be manipulated. To try to make you my tool would be to demean you. And I will not lie to you, in part, because to do so would make me a lesser man than I want to be. My word needs to be trustworthy always. If it is not, then I can never be trusted.
“That said, Princess, I ask that you come with me on my terms. Or, if you like, you may stay where you are, and the deal I have negotiated with your father will be forfeit.”
Kan-hazur crouched in the corner, pondering his words. Daylan had never expected to have to try to convince her to leave. But the wyrm that fed upon her soul was a contrary thing. It shunned reason, trust, and compassion.
He suddenly realized that perhaps he needed to manipulate her in ways that she understood-fear, greed, shame. But to do so would violate every principle of the order that he lived by. Gentleness, loving kindness, gentle persuasion-those were the means that he was allowed to use in such circumstances.
He chose gentle persuasion. “I have a question, princess. You say that the purpose of life is to master humility. B
ut once that is done, what have you gained?”
She glared at him. “Once you realize that the universe is a cold, uncaring bitch, it means that you have only one choice in life-to fight for what you want. It forces you to live by self-determination, and that is the mother of all virtues.”
Daylan nodded. “I, too, value self-determination, and see it as a fertile ground from which virtues may grow. So, I have to wonder: If you are resolved to lead a self-determined life, how is that to be done here in this cell? Are you going to sit here and die where King Urstone’s men have placed you? That doesn’t sound like self-determination to me. It sounds as if you are their pawn. Or would you choose instead to go back and claim your empire, even if it means that you must fight your own father for it?”
She glared at him. At last she climbed to her feet. Daylan offered her his hand, but she rejected it.
“I will not take my empire because you give it to me,” she growled. “I will take it because I can. You have arranged my release for your own reasons, and I will owe you nothing.”
Daylan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me which evil wyrmling rules the earth. You’re all much the same.”
Still, she followed him out of the cell.
In the torture chamber, Daylan found a ragged tunic beside a rack. Someone had torn it off a prisoner before flogging him. The tunic was overlarge, but it would have to do.
They climbed the stairs stealthily and found a single guard on duty. He was sitting at a table, snoring loudly. In one hand he clutched a finely gilded wine bottle as if it were a lover. Obviously, the bottle was a gift from the king.
Daylan Hammer and Princess Kan-hazur unlocked the prison door, and were unleashed upon the world.
THE HARVEST
A hero is not always brave and strong. More often, he is but a common man who finds the courage and strength to do what he must, while others do not.
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