Relief flooded through Rhianna. I’m right to love him, she thought.
Fallion kicked some leaves into a pile, knelt over it, and sparked some flint against the hilt of his sword. The leaves were dry in midsummer and caught fire instantly. If Farion thought it strange that they took fire so fast, it did not show in her face. Only relief was revealed there.
In moments a fierce little blaze was going.
“Is your father well?” Fallion asked. “I have often missed his counsel.”
“His Dedicates were killed years back,” Farion said. “He lost his wit, his stamina, his metabolism. All of the lore that he once knew, it’s all gone. For a while, Lord Hale made him his fool, but now he is little more than a simpleton for me to care for. He fetches wood and can feed the cats, but he’s no use for aught else.”
Fallion grieved silently. In all of the realm there had not been a man who loved learning half as much as her father, Hearthmaster Waggit. Among the many ruins that Fallion had encountered in the week since his return to Mystarria, this one seemed to sadden him the most.
He peered into the flames for a long moment, and the Seal of the Inferno appeared, like a burning wheel, imprinted upon his retina. He pulled a log onto the fire. The dancing flames seemed to beckon him.
Off to his left a shadow moved, perhaps thirty paces from the fire. A strengi-saat. He peered in its direction, and the shadows thickened.
“Jaz,” Fallion warned. He picked up a stick from the fire and hurled it toward the shadow. The twig flipped end over end, hit something and blazed bright, revealing the strengi-saat.
It was a large one, perhaps eighteen feet from nose to tail, but had looked smaller as it bellied low to the ground. Its jaws were wide enough to carry a man whole, and its head was leathery and seemed to have scales instead of fur like that found on its back and belly. Ugly black hide stretched over a face as naked as a buzzard’s. It had no ears, only tympanums, round membranes the size of plates, just behind its enormous eyes. It whirled to race away.
Jaz fired. The arrow plocked into the monster’s chest, skewering a lung. Black blood gushed out in a fountain as the strengi-saat roared and began rolling among the pine needles. Rhianna shouted and rushed toward it, her staff at the ready, and the monster leapt away, hoping to escape. It lunged off into the shadows, leaving Rhianna far behind. Fallion knew that it would only find a quiet place to die.
The sun had not yet risen, but the sky was growing light. In a moment, the bright disk would rise and hang like a shield upon the shoulder of the world. Fallion warmed his hands by the fire, let its energy seep into him for a few moments longer.
For the past year, he had been seeking to master the flameweavers’ arts in earnest. He could feel the energy building inside him, a hidden inferno. When he judged that he could hold no more, he abruptly stood and announced, “Let’s go deal with this Lord Hale.”
Far above Fallion a star shone so dimly that it could not be seen, a light so distant that even upon the darkest of nights it was only a hazy malformed speck in the vastness of space, unremarkable, unknown. Fallion had never seen the star, for only those with many endowments of sight could discern it. He had never gazed up from a meadow at night and wondered whether worlds spun in lazy circles about it. He had never dreamt that it might harbor people similar to his.
Yet upon that world a young man, not entirely human inform, faced challenges of his own….
2
UPON A FAR WORLD
When the great Rune of Creation was shattered, the One True World shattered with it into a million million Shadow Worlds, each a distortion of the perfect whole, each diminished.
Do men even exist on such worlds? I used to ask. I believed that they must, at least on some of those worlds, for the Bright Ones dwelt upon the One True World, and we are but shadows of them.
How many times had I wondered if upon one of those shadow worlds there was another me, a twisted mockery of what I am, or a shining example of what I might yet become.
If I were to walk upon such a world, I wondered, and happen upon my shadow self, would I even recognize myself?
But never did I guess that it would happen in my lifetime. I do not blame Fallion for what he did. None of us could ever have guessed the terrible consequences of what would come.
—the Wizard Binnesman
The Great War was finally near an end, and mankind had lost.
The castle at Caer Luciare was now a last and lonely refuge perched on the sides of a mount. The forbidding wastes below were a rocky tumult. To the north, west and east, the ruins of ancient cities climbed above the scree. The vast oaks that had once refreshed this land were gone, tree and acorn, razed during battles with the wyrmlings, and now the fields boasted little but boulders, weeds, and thistles. Only in a few distant fens could green still be seen.
Refugees had swelled Caer Luciare’s numbers to more than thirty-eight thousand. The High King himself had come after the fall of Gonart, and the Light of Dalharristan had resorted here with his family now for six years. And this past month alone, four hundred good Kartoche warriors with skin whiter than bone had journeyed north to take refuge among Caer Luciare’s ranks.
Everyone said that the warlords were preparing for some fierce assault against the evil that dwelt in the north, at Rugassa.
Had you been walking the tower at Caer Luciare that morning, you might have seen Alun, a young man of nineteen who still seemed far more a boy than a man, down on the green outside the gates amid a swarm of dogs. The hounds around him bayed excitedly at the promise of the hunt, while mastiffs woofed.
Alun knelt with his neck and back bent like a willow frond as he groomed an old hound. Alun was a gangrel, he was, with a crooked nose, stick-like arms, and a head and hands that were too meaty for his body. His leather trousers and red wool tunic were matted with hair and smelled of dog.
The dogs looked fierce in their masks and cuirasses of boiled leather, their wicked collars bristling with spikes. Yet the nubs of their tails wagged furiously, belying their fierce appearance. Their tails wagged despite the fact that some of the dogs knew that they would die this day as the warriors scoured the forest, hunting for wyrmling “harvesters.”
There weren’t enough dogs for the hunt, Alun knew, not enough healthy ones. He had others in the kennels, limping on mangled paws or with bellies ripped open; right now he was preparing to send Wanderlust into the fray.
“What do you say, love?” Alun asked the hound as he combed. He wanted her to look nice, in case she died today.
Wanderlust was old. The black hair on her snout had gone gray. Her joints were swollen, and as Alun held her muzzle, peered into her loving brown eyes, and strapped on a fighting collar, she barely managed a slow wag of her tail, as if to say, “Another battle? I’m so weary, but I will go.”
At first glance, she didn’t look like much of a dog. But Wanderlust was more than a common hound. Her mother was a sand hound, a breed so named for its sandy color, renowned for its good nose. But her father was a brute, descended from three strains of war dog. Wanderlust was almost as large as a mastiff, and she had a warrior’s heart. Even in old age, if she smelled a wyrmling, she would be first to the fray.
Alun put on Wanderlust’s mask, as red as a bloodied skull. He had fashioned it himself, and it reminded him that all too soon there be nothing left of her but a skull. If the wyrmlings didn’t get her, age would.
A hound named Thunder rushed up and bayed in Alun’s face. Alun gave Thunder a stern look, warned him to go sit, then Alun twisted over to dig in his big rucksack for Wanderlust’s cuirass.
A shadow fell over Alun; he looked up. Warlord Madoc stood above him, a tall man in his forties, astonishingly big-boned and broad at the chest. He was a powerful man, as relentlessly bred for war as any of the dogs in Alun’s care. His bald head was painted in a red war mask, though he had not yet donned his armor. At his back were his twin sons, Connor and Drewish, both eighteen, in masks of blue. Alun dr
ew back reflexively, for Drewish had often kicked him.
“G’day, milord,” Alun said. “Nice day for a hunt.” He nodded toward the wastes. The rising sun sprang above the fog-shrouded vales, staining the mist in shades of rose.
“Fagh! I grow weary of hunts,” Madoc groused, his tone equally full of fatigue and disgust. He nodded at Wanderlust. “Sending the old bitch out?”
“Aye, milord.”
Warlord Madoc grew thoughtful. “You’re grooming her for her burial. She deserves such honor. But I have a more vital task for her today—and for you, I think.”
“Milord?”
“Master Finnes tells me that your dog has a nose so strong that she can track the trail of a quail a day after it has taken to air—even if it flies over open water.”
“True enough,” Alun said, his heart suddenly pumping, excited to hear that Wanderlust might get a reprieve.
“Then, I need you to track … someone.”
Alun wondered whom. He had not heard of any criminals that had escaped the dungeons or highwaymen hiding in the wastes. No one dared stray outside the castle these days. “Who, milord?”
“Swear on your eyes and your hands that you won’t tell?”
That was a serious oath. If Alun broke it, Warlord Madoc would require his eyes and hands as payment. “I’ll nay tell nobody.”
“I want you to track Daylan Hammer.”
“Milord?” Alun asked, surprised. Daylan Hammer was a hero. No, he was more than a hero, he was a legend, not some common criminal to be hunted and spied upon. Tales of his exploits stretched back for centuries. It was said that he was immortal, that in his youth he had traveled to another world, where he had drunk a potion that somehow let him cheat death. Some thought that he might even be from another world. He could not be killed, yet he had a habit of disappearing for decades on end, then showing up again. He had come to Caer Luciare last summer, at the end of the month of Wheat, and had been wintering all season.
“You heard aright,” Madoc said. “Daylan Hammer has a habit of abandoning the hunt, taking off into the wastes alone. There is a pattern to it. If I’m right, he’ll leave the hunt today. I suspect him of foul deeds. I need to know where he goes.”
Alun must have looked worried. At the very least, he did not know how to answer.
“Are you up to the task?” Madoc demanded. “Would you risk the wastes alone, with nothing but that dog?”
“I’m—not afraid,” Alun said. “Wanderlust will warn me if there is any danger about.”
“Do this for me,” Madoc said, “and I’ll make you Master of the Hounds….” He fell silent, letting this sink in. “With the title comes your freedom and a grant of all of the rights owed to a warrior of the clan….”
Alun’s jaw dropped in astonishment. He and his ancestors had lived as serfs for generations. They were the most ill-bred of mankind—the servant caste—made slaves by nature. As a child, Alun had often been told that warlord Madoc would geld him when he got older so that he wouldn’t pollute the blood lines. Alun had never dared to dream of rising above his fate.
But as a warrior of the clan, he would gain the right to own property. He would someday be able to buy himself a fine house instead of sleeping in the kennels among the dogs. He would eat at the warlord’s table and drink the warlord’s wine, instead of eating scraps. He would be eligible to marry a fine woman, a warlord’s daughter. “Master Finnes is growing old,” Madoc explained. “He tells me that you know dogs as well as any man alive, and you will be a great service to the clan. You are ready to move up in this world.”
Alun listened, but worried. Compliments, he found, were like grease on an axle. When applied liberally, they will speed one along on a journey—but soon wear out.
Madoc was offering too much for this one small act of service. There was more going on here than Madoc let on. At his back, Drewish only leered.
Madoc is afraid to his send his own sons to spy on Daylan Hammer, Alun realized. This game is more dangerous than it appears. It’s not just the wyrmlings I have to fear—it’s Daylan himself. If he’s involved in some plot, he might kill to cover it up. That’s what Madoc fears. That’s what he suspects.
Indeed, Sir Croft had died under suspicious circumstances on the hunt some four weeks past, off on the trail alone. Now that Alun thought of it, hadn’t someone said that Croft had gone out to search for Daylan Hammer?
But at the time, Alun hadn’t given that a second thought. He’d imagined that Croft was slain by a wyrmling before he found the immortal.
Daylan Hammer seemed to be a virtuous man, wise and brave. He was as handy with a joke or a song as he was with a bow—and after centuries of practice, no one was handier with a bow. Everyone admired him. He was … the kind of lord that Madoc could never hope to be.
Is Madoc’s jealousy clouding his judgment? Alun wondered.
“You suspect him of Croft’s death,” Alun said.
Wanderlust inched forward, pressing her muzzle into Alun’s chest, reminding him that she needed her cuirass. Up at the castle gate, hooves thundered on the drawbridge as a pair of warriors issued forth, and in the fields below the castle, a murder of crows began to caw and fly up out of a field of oats.
Madoc grinned. “Smart lad,” he said. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. I suspect him of murder, and more. If he is the traitor that I think he is, I’ll tie his hands behind his back and let the headsman take a few swings at him.”
Drewish laughed, “Then we’ll find out just how immortal he really is.”
If I follow Daylan Hammer and find something to accuse him of, what then? Alun wondered. If Madoc succeeds in taking vengeance, for the rest of time people will remember me as the man who betrayed Daylan Hammer.
Madoc seemed almost to read his mind. “It is possible,” he said, “that Daylan Hammer is as fair as he seems. But I have found that it is a rare man who can really be trusted. Every man’s hand seeks his brother’s purse, especially in days like these. And if Daylan Hammer sees some advantage in betraying us …
“I’d send a warrior again, or Connor or Drewish, but you have a chance to succeed where they would fail. If Daylan catches you, you can tell him that you were out hunting for a lost dog. That is, after all, your lot in life, and it would sound feasible that you would go out and hunt for an animal that you love.”
“I think …” Alun said, “that Daylan Hammer is a good man.”
“Good to who?” Madoc asked. “Is he loyal to this kingdom? Of course not. He was born before it was, and it will fade and die long before he does. We are like dreams to him that come vividly in the night and just as soon vanish. I make plans for my lands. My serfs know that we will plant barley in the field for three years, and let it lie fallow for two. But think how Daylan Hammer must scheme. What does he plan for these lands in a hundred years, or a thousand, or in ten thousand?
“More to the point, what will he do to bring those plans to bear? Will you and I suffer for it?”
Alun grunted thoughtfully, stroked Wanderlust on the back. Most likely, he would find that Daylan was guilty of nothing, and by humoring Warlord Madoc, Alun would earn his gratitude. But if Alun discovered anything of import… he’d be well rewarded.
“I’ll do it, milord,” Alun said.
As Warlord Madoc and his sons strode across the greens well out of earshot, Drewish asked his father, “You wouldn’t really grant Alun clan rights, would you? Mother thinks he should be gelded. He’s more of a cur than any of the dogs that he sleeps with.”
“I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” Madoc said. “I must prove to my people that my word is good. Let him marry a warrior’s daughter, if he can find one who will sleep with him. We’ll send him and his offspring to the head of every battle.”
“What if Daylan discovers what we’re up to?” Drewish asked. “He is a persuasive man. Alun would gladly follow him, I think, right into a kezziard’s maw, if the old man asked it of him.”
“W
e can trust Alun,” Warlord Madoc said. “Daylan Hammer has no coin to buy the lad, and we’re offering him… more than he could ever dream. He’ll betray Daylan Hammer.”
“How can you be sure?” Drewish asked.
“His dogs,” Madoc replied. “Every day, Alun sends them to their deaths, betraying those that love him best. He’s grown adept at betrayal.”
3
A WARM RECEPTION
In my dreams, it was always the same. I stood in the Underworld, and a great wheel of fire was emblazoned before my eyes, the Seal of the Inferno.
There were other Seals, the Seal of Heaven, the Seal of Earth—but those were already mended, or at least, were far along the path.
I stared into the rune. To a commoner it would have looked only like a bowl of fire, tongues of flame in greens and reds and blues, sputtering aimlessly. But to my eyes, I read purpose and meaning in those flames. They whispered to me, telling me their secrets. And I watched how they subsided and reappeared in patterns that could not have been random, and I began to understand. The pain of the world, its despair and torment, was written in those flames. They were bent and tainted, cruel and deformed. I knew that with only the smallest changes, the slightest of twists, I could fix them. And in mending them, I would mend the world.
—from the journal of Fallion Orden
Fallion strode purposefully down the rutted road toward the gates of Castle Coorm.
The sun was rising now, a brilliant gold rim of light on the horizon and not a cloud in the sky. Behind him, the others followed.
Each of them bore a torch, though Fallion made sure that his burned the brightest.
“Torch-bearer.” That was Fallion’s name among the flameweavers. Somehow, as he bore the torch toward the castle, he wondered if it was only descriptive, or if it was prophetic.
The castle gate was closed, the drawbridge had been raised again. Fallion could see a pair of mallards grabbling in the serene waters of the moat, splashing and preening, while their chicks bobbed about in their wake. But whenever he looked to the drawbridge, he suddenly had a flash of light that pierced his eye, and he saw the Seal of the Inferno, burning inside a ring of fire.
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