Worldbinder

by David Farland

  “It’s all right,” Jaz assured her. “You were only dreaming. You were just dreaming. Do you know where you are?”

  Talon peered down at the floor, so far below her, and then peered at her hands, huge and powerful, as if trying to make sense of them. “Am I still dreaming?”

  She studied Fallion, who lay on the floor, holding his arm where she had hit him.

  Fallion remembered being trampled by a bull and taking far less hurt. He tried moving his arm experimentally. He didn’t think that it was broken, but it would be black and blue for weeks.

  “No,” Jaz said. “The world has changed. Two worlds are combined, and I guess … you changed with them. We’re not sure what happened….”

  Fallion waited for a reaction. He had thought that she would weep for her lost humanity or sit and sulk. Instead, shock and acceptance seemed to come almost at the same moment.

  “I see,” she said, peering at her hands as if considering the implications of his words. Then with a sigh she said, “Let’s go see this new world.”

  More than anything, this showed Fallion the depth of the change in Talon. Gone was the young woman Fallion had known.

  Talon reached down to take Fallion’s hand. He proffered his good hand, but when she grasped it, Fallion cried out in pain. “Not so tight!”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Sorry. I, uh, barely touched you.”

  He felt sure that she was telling the truth. He also felt sure that if she wanted, she could tear his arm off as easily as she could rip the wing off of a roasted chicken.

  She pulled Fallion to his feet, then stalked out of the room on unsteady legs, as if trying to become accustomed to her new size.

  She strode out into the street, went to the gate tower, and by the time she reached it she leapt up, taking the stairs four at a stride. Then she just stood for a long moment until Fallion caught up.

  “Damn,” she whispered when he drew near. “You’ve made a mess of things.”

  “What do you mean?” Fallion asked. “Are you ill?”

  “Fallion,” Talon said, “I feel great. I feel… better than I’ve ever felt before.” She turned and peered at him. “You’ve done me no harm. In fact, it is the opposite. I feel more … whole, than I ever felt before.”

  Fallion understood what she meant, partly. It was said that all of the worlds were but shadows of the One True World, and some wizards suspected that a man might have shadows of himself on each of those worlds.

  Somehow, Fallion suspected, he had bound Talon to her shadow self.

  “Nightfall is coming,” she said. “The … wyrmlings will come with it. We have to get away, get to safety.”

  Fallion couldn’t imagine any place safer than the castle, even in its poor repair. Nor did he know what a wyrmling was. But this world was in ruins. And the wyrmlings were the cause.

  There is a rule to war. The first rule, Fallion had been taught, was to know your enemy.

  “What are wyrmlings?” he asked.

  “Giants.”

  “Like you?”

  “Larger than me,” Talon laughed. “I am human, bred to be one of the warrior clan, large and fierce. My ancestors were bred to be this way, much as you breed dogs of war to increase their size, their viciousness. And though I am larger than a human of feral stock, the wyrmlings are more than a head taller than me, and outweigh me by hundreds of pounds. We are but feeble imitations of the wyrmlings. And we true humans are almost all gone. There are fewer than forty thousand of us left.

  “The wyrmlings hunt by night,” Talon explained, “for they cannot tolerate light. They eat only meat, and they worship the Lady Despair.”

  “I see,” Fallion said.

  “No, not really,” Talon answered. “There’s more to tell, and it will take hours to do so. But first, we must get away from here.”

  “Where do we go?”

  Talon peered into the distance, closed her eyes in consternation. “I can’t remember…. It’s like a dream. I see the place, but I can’t put a name to it.”

  “Then give yourself a moment to wake,” Fallion said.

  Talon peered into the distance for a long minute. “Luciare. The fortress is called Luciare.”

  “Where is it?” Fallion asked.

  Talon closed her eyes, concentrated. She could see her mother and father there. Borenson was much the same in both worlds she decided, but Talon’s mothers were not the same woman at all. How would that work? she wondered. Where is my father—in Luciare, or back in Landesfallen? And what of my sisters and brothers?

  She wanted to find them, make sure that all of them were well, that they had survived this transformation. But the world had shifted, and she was on strange ground.

  Talon shook her head. “I’m not sure. Everything’s … wrong. I’m not sure I’ve even been here before. She nodded to a distant peak to the south, one with a distinctive hump upon the eastern flank. “That could be Mount Shuneya. That means that Luciare would be west, west by southwest, maybe—a hundred miles, or a hundred and twenty. We can’t make it tonight, or even tomorrow….”

  They wouldn’t be able to make it even in four days, Fallion suspected, not with him in his current condition. But he could hear the urgency in Talon’s voice.

  He looked up at her and wondered, Why don’t I have a body like hers? Why didn’t I combine with my shadow self?

  Instead he felt frail, worn.

  This whole place is a snare, Fallion realized. The one who set it couldn’t know for sure when I would come, or even if I would come. But now that the wire has been sprung, the hunter will be upon us. Fallion suspected it, and Talon seemed to feel it in her bones.

  “How long before the wyrmlings get here?” Fallion asked.

  “They have fortresses nearby, within thirty miles,” she said. “And there might be hidden outposts even closer than that. If the local commanders know to watch this place, they’ll come tonight. Even if Lady Despair has to send assassins from Rugassa, they could be on our trail by dawn.”

  So, Fallion thought, a race is on.

  “We’ll have to keep under the cover of trees, lie low in the woods during the night, and run through the days….”

  “How do you know all of this?” Fallion asked. “How can you be sure?”

  A look of confusion washed over Talon’s face, and she shook her head. “My father, the man you know as Sir Borenson, is … Aaath Ulber—High Guard. I… we are Warrior Clan.”

  So Fallion felt even more convinced. Talon hadn’t merged with some beast. She had merged with her shadow self, with the woman she had been on this world.

  Are all of them so large? Fallion wondered. It would explain the strange ruins, so high and soaring. But no, Talon had been but a girl, and had been diminutive at that. The humans of this world wouldn’t all be so large. He suspected that most would be larger.

  I’ve brought us to a land of giants, he realized, giants that have almost been destroyed by the wyrmlings.

  A sudden fear took him. Whatever was coming, he didn’t think that he could fight it. He’d fallen into a trap. He had been forced to join these two worlds together, and he saw the ruin that had followed.

  He could not fix what he had done. He had no idea how to un-bind the two worlds.

  And he suspected that his Queen of the Loci was rejoicing in what he had done.

  Perhaps the best way to thwart her plan, he considered, is to continue my journey to the Mouth of the World and finish binding all of the shadow worlds all into one.

  But he considered the damage he had done, and wondered now at the wisdom of that.

  If he bungled this further, he could destroy the world, not heal it.

  And there was a second worry. Perhaps that proposed course of action was exactly what the enemy wanted.

  Talon turned to Fallion, gave him a calculating gaze. Then her eyes snapped to Jaz who was still feebly making his way across the courtyard below, too weak to keep pace.

  Fallion marveled at
the change in Talon. She looked vibrant, energized.

  “How soon can we be ready to go?” she demanded.

  “I’m ready now,” Fallion lied, feeling too fragile for a forced march. “But you’ve been asleep for hours. We thought that you would die. The question is how do you feel?”

  She smiled, showing her overlarge canines. “Never better,” she said, a tone of wonder creeping into her voice. She peered down at her hand again, clenched it and unclenched, as if realizing it was true. “I feel like I could crush rocks in these hands.”

  “I think you’re right,” Fallion said. “You nearly crushed me.”

  9

  THE COUNCIL

  A king who is weak and ineffective is a kind of traitor, and bringing such a man down can be an act of patriotism.

  —Warlord Madoc

  Alun struggled up toward Caer Luciare, his mouth agape.

  There were trees everywhere, huge firs on the skirts of the mountain, white aspens along its top. They had grown in an instant, appearing as if in a vision, their shimmering forms gaining substance.

  He had seen them as he fainted, and when he woke, aching and weary, everything had changed. The sun was still up, marvelously drawn back in the sky, and the hills were full of dust clouds and birds.

  Daylan Hammer was nowhere to be seen.

  Wanderlust had stayed at Alun’s side, and once he got to his feet, the dog set out on Daylan Hammer’s trail again. The dog was able to track him through the thick sod, heading straight for Caer Luciare.

  But as Alun neared, he peered in stunned silence at the devastation. The fortress was in ruins. The mountain it had rested upon had dropped hundreds of feet in elevation, and with the drop, the whole structure of the mountain had changed. A stone cliff had broken away, exposing tunnels hidden beneath it like the burrows of wood worms in a rotten log.

  Steam from the hot pools beneath the castle hissed out of a dozen rents, and the streams above the castle had been diverted. Waterfalls now emptied down the cliffs from three separate tunnels.

  Everywhere, people were rushing to and fro like ants in a broken nest, and Alun staggered up to the castle in a daze, feeling wearier than he’d ever been.

  He worried what would happen if the wyrmlings should attack. With the rents in the fortress, they’d have easy access. It might well be indefensible.

  He put Wanderlust in the kennel, made sure that the dogs all had food and water, then went looking for Warlord Madoc.

  He found him in the battle room, with the High King and his lords, having a shouting match. Daylan Hammer was there, too, and the Wizard Sisel. High King Urstone looked haggard upon his dais, as much shocked by the devastation as Alun. The Warlords standing in the audience hall appeared angry, as if seeking a target for their frustrations.

  “I say we strike now, and strike hard!” Madoc roared.

  “And leave ourselves defenseless?” the Emir asked. “There are breaches in our defenses. We need men to repair them, strong men like our warriors, and we need time.” The Emir was a tall man for one of his kind. He was shorter than Madoc, and much narrower of shoulder. But he held himself like a king, and thus seemed to cast a long shadow.

  “And if the wyrmlings have such breaches in their defenses,” Warlord Barrest asked, “would it not be the chance of a lifetime? We might break into their prison with ease, and release the prince, and send out assassins against Zul-torac.”

  “What weapon would you use to pierce his shadow?” the Emir asked. “Can it even be slain?”

  “It can,” Madoc said, “with cold iron and sunlight.”

  “That is but a presumption,” King Urstone said. “No one has ever killed a Death Lord.”

  The Wizard Sisel said, “I think it is more than a presumption, it is a calculated chance. Sunlight would loosen the monstrous spells that bind his spirit to this world. It should weaken him to the point that he could be slain.”

  King Urstone was a bit taller than Warlord Madoc, but narrower at the shoulder. He wore no badge of office. Instead, he wore a shirt of plain chain mail, covered by a brown cape, as if he were but another soldier in the castle. His face was wise and lined with wrinkles, and his beard, which was light brown going gray, made him look wiser still. He said reasonably “Attacking Zul-torac is foolhardy. You can’t reach him. He never leaves the warrens beneath Mount Rugassa. He hides among the shadows with the other Death Lords. You’ll never expose him to light. And if you were to attack, his reprisals would tear our realm apart. Let there be no talk of antagonizing Zul-torac. It is only because we hold his daughter hostage that we have enjoyed what little peace we could find these last few years. So long as Zul-torac lives, we can hope to live.”

  The Emir had always been wise in counsel. Now he bent his head in thought. “Even if we tried to strike at the north, we might well find that this devastation—this spell—is but a local affair. It may have no effect upon Rugassa.”

  He looked to the Wizard Sisel. “What think you, wizard? Is it a local affair?”

  The Wizard Sisel leaned upon his staff and bent his head in thought. His face was burned by sun and wind, with cheeks the color of a ripe apple. His hands and fingernails were dirty from his garden, and his robes looked bedraggled. But he carried himself with dignity despite his ragged attire.

  He was a powerful wizard, and it was his wards and enchantments that had long helped protect Caer Luciare. All ears bent as he voiced his opinion.

  “It is no local affair,” the wizard said. Of them all, only his voice sounded calm and reasonable. “We saw a world fall from the sky, and now the whole world has changed. Grave changes have occurred. I feel it. The earth groans in pain. I can feel it in the soil, and hear it among the rocks. What the cause is, I do not yet know. But this I can say: it is time to prepare for war, not go to war. Did a wyrmling cast this spell—perhaps even Zul-torac himself? If so, he may have known the destruction it would bring. Leaving the castle now, leaving it undefended, would mean that we are playing into the enemy’s hands. And even if it was not a wyrmling who caused this destruction, this spell will rile them. Casting it is like beating a hornets’ nest with a stick. My feeling is that the wyrmlings will strike at us, no matter what.”

  “Then it is even more imperative that we take Cantular now,” Madoc said. “By taking the bridge and holding it, we can forestall any attempt at a more serious attack.”

  “Your argument is persuasive,” King Urstone said. “Almost, I would ride to war now. If Sisel is right, the wyrmlings will soon be on their way, and my son’s life is forfeit, for I cannot put my love for him above the needs of my people—

  “However,” King Urstone continued, “I would have the counsel of Daylan Hammer on this, for he has wisdom gained over countless ages. This spell that is upon us, Daylan—this new world that fell from the heavens—have you heard of the like?” Urstone was an aging man, much worn by his office, and looked as drained as Alun felt. But he was of the warrior caste, and he was a powerful man. Indeed, Alun had never seen the king show a hint of weariness, until now.

  Daylan Hammer strode to the center of the audience hall and pulled himself to his full height. Among the warriors, he was a small man, for none of them were less than a foot taller.

  “There has never been the like,” Daylan said, “in all of the lore that I know. But upon the netherworld there has been the hope that such a thing would be.”

  “A hope?” King Urstone asked in dismay.

  “There has been the hope that someone would someday gain the power to bind worlds together.

  “Long ago, there was but one world, and one moon, and all men lived in perfect contentment, in perfect peace. There was no death or pain, no deformity, no poverty or war or vice.

  “But one went out from among our forefathers who sought power. She sought to wrest control of the world from the others. The control of the world was bound into a great rune, the Seal of Creation. She sought to twist it, to bind it to her, so that she would become the
lord of the earth.

  “But in the process of twisting it, the Seal of Creation was broken, and the One World shattered into many, into thousands and tens of thousands and into millions—each a world orbiting its own sun, each a flawed replica of that One True World.

  “The world that you live upon,” Daylan said, “is but a flawed shadow of that world, like a piece of broken crystal that can only hint at what it once was.”

  Daylan Hammer paused, and High King Urstone demanded. “Why have I never heard this lore?”

  “It has been lost here upon your world,” Daylan said. “But it is remembered elsewhere, on other worlds.

  “There has been a hope, a prophecy, that one among us would gain the power to bind the shadow worlds into one. If so, then I know who has done this. It may be that he has gained that power at last—”

  “Or?” King Urstone demanded.

  “Or it may be that the enemy has gained such control. Long has she endeavored, hoping to learn how to bind worlds into one. But that skill has eluded her.”

  “This is madness,” Warlord Heddick cried. “What proof do we have that any of this is true?”

  “If it is proof that you want,” Daylan said, “look inside yourselves. Some of you must feel the change. In the past two hours alone I have heard a dozen people talking of strange dreams, of other lives that they remember. If I am right, many of you have combined with your other self, a shadow self. And our captains tell us that thousands of our people have just vanished. I suspect that they are scattered across the earth, having also combined with their shadow selves. Those ‘dreams’ that you are having are not dreams, they are memories. They are the proof that you seek, and if you question those who have them, you will find that their stories, their memories, corroborate one another. Do any of you have them?”