Worldbinder

by David Farland

  King Urstone began to tremble. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. The men were set to march on Cantular within the hour, and King Urstone dared not call a halt. The Dyll-Tandor was flooding, creating a barrier around his lands, and he needed to take the bridge at Cantular, seal his borders. But so much else needed to be done, too.

  “Tell me this,” King Urstone asked. “On this other world, this shadow world, did I die well?”

  Sisel smiled warmly. “You died in a great battle, in defense of your family and your people. None ever died better.”

  “Well then,” King Urstone said after a thought, “let’s see that it doesn’t happen again.” He smiled weakly. “I have learned that a plan is already underway to free my son. That is why Daylan Hammer was meeting with the wyrmling. He was trying to arrange an exchange of hostages, my son for the wyrmling princess. And I can see to it that the plan moves forward. If all goes well, by dawn tomorrow, Areth will be free.”

  “Do you trust the wyrmlings to keep such a bargain?” Sisel asked after some thought.

  “No. But do I have any other choice? What army will I batter down the gates of Rugassa with? How else will I free my son?”

  But the king began to think—I could batter their gates with an army of runelords.

  The wizard frowned in consternation. “I don’t like this plan. I don’t trust the wyrmlings. And there are some in our ranks I trust even less. Warlord Madoc has campaigned long and hard to lead an attack. For years he has waited. You and I both know what he seeks.”

  “I’m afraid,” King Urstone said, “that I can see no good reason to deny him, and every reason to move his plan forward. This great change that has been wrought upon the earth will alarm the wyrmlings, and they are most dangerous when so alarmed. If the wyrmlings are coming, we need to take the bridge at Cantular—as much as we need to save my son.”

  The wizard shook his head. “Your son is worth more than a bridge, believe me.”

  “Would you still counsel me then to halt the attack?”

  Sisel shook his head sadly. “No. I fear, milord, that the enemy is wiser than we would hope. They may already know about the lore of the forcibles, and who they now hold captive. And if they know, there will be no trade for your son, and no saving him. Go forward with your plan, and let us hope for the best.”

  19

  DARK WATERS

  I find that the best way to endure ugliness and pain is to remember beauty. Always in my memory, it is the face of a woman that gives me strength. Her name was Yaleen.

  —Daylan Hammer

  Daylight came to the privy, the softest blush of light shining through the holes up above. With the dawn came an unwholesome rain as hundreds of soldiers relieved themselves of the waste from last night’s feast.

  Daylan Hammer stood stoically, head bowed, mouth tightly shut, and endured.

  He had been standing so long that once in the night, all of the blood had rushed to his feet, and he had staggered and fallen in the mire.

  So he had learned, and now he raised his feet every now and then, stamping them in the filth, so that he made sure to keep blood pumping to his head.

  It will end soon, he thought. The warriors will be leaving at dawn.

  And after an hour, they seemed to be gone. No more foul rains hurtled down, no crude jests or harsh laughter assailed him.

  He waded to the far end, then reached up and began trying to climb out of the privy.

  There was little to hold onto. The walls were wet and slimy. Mold and unhealthy funguses grew upon them, making them slick. There was no brickwork or mortar here, with crevices that he might slip his fingers into, just solid rock worn smooth over the ages.

  Still, he had to try.

  He pressed his fingernails into a sheet of mold, hoping that it might give him some purchase.

  He was wet, soggy, and that added extra pounds.

  He pulled himself up slowly, and let the urine drip off of him a little, hoping to reduce his weight. But the sheet of mold broke free, and he slid back.

  I would weigh less if I were naked, he decided.

  He did not want to suffer that indignity. He didn’t want to risk having someone see him squirming as he struggled up out of the privy.

  On the other hand, I doubt whether I ever want to wear these clothes again, he told himself.

  With grim determination, he shucked off his pants, ripped off his tunic, and began the climb.

  It took him nearly an hour to get ten feet up the wall. But from there, the slope suddenly got steeper. By then, his fingernails and toenails bled, and he was straining every muscle.

  He dared not rest. He was too wet and slimy. Each time he laid against the wall, he merely slid back into the cesspool.

  If I were dry, he thought, perhaps I could get more friction, perhaps I could make it.

  And so he clung in one spot, sweat streaming down his forehead and from his armpits and chest, hoping to get dry enough so that he might find some purchase.

  All of his endowments of strength and grace could not suffice to get him one foot farther up the wall. Only superhuman effort had gotten him this far at all.

  Suddenly, he heard a soft thud, and a coil of rope came twisting down out of the darkness.

  Who? he wondered. Daylan had seen the grief-stricken look on Alun’s face when he’d been arrested. He wondered, Is he trying to make amends?

  But it wasn’t Alun who spoke. It was the High King himself, his mournful voice echoing in the small chamber.

  “Daylan Hammer, the troops are assembled at the gate, and soon they will be gone. The guard will be light. There are those who would thwart you, if they knew of your purpose. But I wish you well. By the Powers that preserve us I beg you, save my son.”

  20

  TROPHIES OF THE HUNT

  There is a special bond that develops between the hunter and the hunted. They share a similar thrill, a visceral excitement that is only aroused when a life is placed in jeopardy. It is Lady Despair’s will that everyone should learn the joy of the hunt. And in the proper time, everyone should share the thrill of being hunted.

  —Zul-torac

  As the shadows deepened and grew long upon the land, Fallion and his friends huddled in silence. Fear and anticipation were thick in the air, and none dared stir in the small loft. Every tiny noise, every little breath, every scuff of a foot as it was rearranged on the wooden floor, seemed amplified, as if striving to give them away.

  The heartbeats of Fallion and his friends sounded as loud as drums.

  There was little light. A handful of dying light-berries lay sprawled upon the floor.

  This is not natural, Fallion thought, as his pounding heart drummed faster, filling the small room with its deep, echoing beat. He peered around the room at the others. This is a spell of some sort, perhaps cast by a sorcerer of the air.

  He tried to still his breathing, remain quiet. He could not really see the others in the room. The light-berries had gone too dim. He could only sense their presence by virtue of sound, by body heat, by scent. Only the slightest bit of starlight shone through the hide window pane. Yet he could tell that they were struggling to remain silent, too.

  “By the Powers,” Talon swore softly, “the hunters are on our trail.” She spoke in a whisper, but the sound seemed to echo through the room like a shout.

  What kinds of hunters have such power, Fallion wondered, that they can magnify the heartbeats of their prey?

  Almost, Fallion feared that his very thoughts would echo from the stone walls like a song.

  Outside the room, down on the street, he heard marching feet, a hundred or more wyrmling troops. There was the usual clanking of armor, the swearing in some strange tongue, and the gruff shouts of a commander.

  But there was something more. There was an itching across the bridge of Fallion’s nose, a crawling sensation that Fallion had learned to recognize long ago. Loci. There were loci in the soldiers outside, beings of pure evil.

&
nbsp; They’re coming for us, he thought as sweat dribbled down his brow. He gripped his long sword firmly, wishing now that he had taken those endowments of brawn proffered by his friends among the Gwardeen.

  No, I do not wish that, he told himself. They will need their own strength in the days to come. And his heart went out to them, there across the sea, as he silently wished them well.

  He strained to hear if the marching feet would stop at the small shop, to hear if the soldiers would turn.

  Perhaps, he thought, someone saw us enter the building. They could come right to us.

  But no, after several long minutes, the soldiers marched down the road, heading back east, toward Castle Coorm.

  Perhaps that is where they are going. Perhaps they have orders to hunt for me.

  At long last, the sound of marching feet faded into the distance, and everyone let out a sigh.

  But the sounds of the room were still amplified. The heavy breathing still resounded from the walls, even louder than before.

  They’re coming for me, Fallion knew, the winged hunters. They’re coming, and they’re getting closer. Any minute now, and they will be here.

  He almost wanted to risk a little light. He had used his flameweaving powers during the heat of the day to store energy, and right now it was leaking from every pore. To those nearby, his skin would feel fevered.

  But he dared not risk it.

  So he waited for a long half hour. The sounds of their breathing, of hearts pounding, grew ever louder.

  Something whisked past the window, blocking out the starlight for an instant—an owl perhaps. Fallion hoped that it was only an owl.

  A moment later, the sounds faded. The room went quiet. Fallion could still hear the blood pounding in his ears, but it was greatly diminished.

  Rhianna gave a relieved sigh, and Jaz whispered, “They’ve left.”

  Suddenly the massive stone roof went blasting into the air, as if tossed aside by the hand of an angry god. The huge slab walls shattered, seemingly hit by battering rams, and Fallion found himself sitting exposed upon a platform.

  Overhead, blotting out the stars, were three beings, floating in the air. Their great wings spread out wide as they hung in a soft breeze, every so often flapping almost silently.

  All three of them were clothed in red.

  Fallion had never sensed such evil, not in Asgaroth, not in Shadoath. It was palpable, like a stink.

  “We’re found!” Jaz shouted, drawing his bow. Rhianna shrieked and leapt to her feet, battle staff at the ready.

  Talon cried out, “Ah, the Knights Eternal. We’re undone!”

  Fallion knew of only one way to fight a locus. He did something now that he had tried only once before.

  He blazed, sending out a bright light, as blinding as the sun. Light bled from every pore, spreading from him like a beacon. One of the Knights Eternal threw up a hand to shield his eyes. At that moment, Jaz loosed an arrow.

  It blurred like a bolt, striking one of the creatures in the chest.

  The Knight Eternal let out a resounding wail, a freakish cry as if from a wounded wolf, and then crumpled, bits of decayed flesh raining down, even as its wings collapsed like a sheet in the wind.

  Vulgnash whirled, looked to where Kryssidia had been. The Knight’s flesh had come unbound.

  No weapon forged by mere mortals should have been able to do that. Only weapons enchanted by a powerful undine could do that, and Vulgnash had rid the earth of such wizards long ago.

  The light intensified, striking Vulgnash like the sun, lashing at him. The human wizard was powerful, more powerful than any that he had met in five thousand years.

  I know this one, Vulgnash realized. The Torch-bearer walks the earth again.

  This disconcerted him, but did not strike fear into Vulgnash’s heart.

  The Torch-bearer had great powers. But he had greater weaknesses.

  Fallion blazed like the sun, wielding the light as if it were a sword. He could see the loci now in his enemies, as he used the light to pierce their spirits. The spirits of his enemies were like balls of soft blue light, with tentacles of energy worming through them.

  In a healthy person, the light would be brilliant, effervescent.

  But Fallion spotted black parasites feeding upon the husks of the creature’s shriveled souls—dark forms that looked like enormous water fleas. They were the loci.

  “By the Powers,” Fallion commanded, “depart!”

  He lashed out, sending his brilliance to burn the loci, hoping to sear them into oblivion.

  And as quickly as he did, the light faded.

  One of the Knights Eternal stretched out a hand, and all of the light Fallion radiated snuffed out.

  Fallion sent a surge of energy, hoping to break the spell, and a fiery rope of heat went twisting into the enemy’s palm.

  The Knight Eternal hurled the fireball back toward Talon, and it took all of Fallion’s skill to shunt it aside before it washed over her.

  “Flameweavers!” Rhianna shouted.

  I’m defenseless, Fallion thought.

  Jaz tried to nock another arrow, but as he did, one of the creatures dove and pointed a finger.

  A blast of icy wind washed over the group, hit them like a blow. Jaz and the others cried out and went sprawling across the floor. The wind was colder than the tomb, and it sucked the air from Fallion’s lungs.

  Fallion fell backward, found himself dangling over the edge of the wall. Suddenly he was cold, so deadly cold that he could not feel his hands, his feet, his face. His heart beat frantically, but Fallion could not move. His muscles would not respond.

  He tried to lift his hand, to cry out or run, but every nerve seemed frozen.

  I’m dead, he thought. I’m dead.

  The enemy dropped from the sky, landing on the wooden floor with a thud, and came striding over to him.

  Fallion could not so much as blink.

  A tall figure all in robes and a cowl loomed above him, revealed by the light of a crescent moon. The evil of its presence smote Fallion, washed over him like filth; Fallion tried to crawl away.

  The wyrmling peered at him, then reached down and stroked Fallion’s cheek. Like a lover, Fallion thought. He stroked me like a lover. But, No, he realized. He strokes me like a hunter who admires a prized kill.

  The cowled figure spoke in a strange tongue, yet there must have been a spell upon Fallion, for he also heard words ringing in his mind.

  “Welcome, little wizard,” the wyrmling said, “to my world.”

  21

  SMALL FOLK

  As a young man, I was taught that to be a warrior is the epitome of virtue, and that warriors should be held in greater esteem than other men. We are the protectors, after all.

  But what does a warrior create? Should not the farmer pruning his orchard be granted equal esteem? Should not the mother nursing her child be deserving of greater praise?

  All of my life, I have felt like a fraud. I have been humbled by humble men.

  Never was it more so than when I first saw the small folk of the shadow world. —High King Urstone

  Alun came staggering into camp on rubbery legs that night, well after dark. He was supposed to have run a hundred miles, but of course his energy gave out.

  The other warriors drove him anyway, hurling curses and encouragement at him in equal measure. “You’re a warrior now!” “Move those damned spindly legs!” “Does a wolf tire when it runs to battle?”

  They laughed, and the tone seemed kindly enough.

  But they were going to kill him, Alun knew.

  He realized it as soon as his legs gave out, and he went sprawling in the dirt.

  Drewish had urged him on with a swift kick to the ribs and a derisive laugh, and had rushed on. But Connor had only halted long enough to yell, “Get off your lazy ass. We’ll have no laggards.”

  Alun had fumbled about, gasping for air, and Connor just rolled his eyes. At last, he picked Alun up by the scruff of the
neck, half carrying him, and ran, holding him upright, forcing him to move his tired legs.

  After a few miles of this, Alun fainted, and woke to find that some burly soldier was carrying him on his back as if he were a corpse. When Alun groaned, the fellow laughed and dropped him to the ground. “Come now, no bellyaching. We’re off to battle. Let’s hear a war song out of you.”

  And that was when Alun knew they were going to kill him. Madoc had given him the honor of joining the clan, and now he’d send him to the front of the line to be slaughtered by wyrmlings.

  They weren’t about to let a mongrel like Alun breed with their precious daughters.

  That was it, he imagined. Or else they want to kill me because they know what I did. Had someone told Madoc about his meeting with the high king?

  The king had assured Alun, “This meeting must be kept private. Tell no one. I want to see my son take the throne someday. Not just for me, but as Daylan Hammer has said, for you, too, and for your posterity.”

  No, Madoc and his men don’t know what I did, Alun decided. They only know what I am.

  And so he ran as well as he could, and he was dragged and carried and kicked the rest of the way.

  He didn’t make it a hundred miles. But he had run forty, he felt certain.

  It was a good account for one of the serf-born caste. There were rumors that one of his great grandmothers had been bedded by a warrior, and thus he claimed some decent blood. But the same could be said of every serf in the kingdom.

  Every bone in his body ached, and when he tried to pee that afternoon, there was blood in his urine from the pummeling his kidneys had taken during the run. He felt too tired to care.

  The last few miles were the hardest. They had reached a strange canyon called the Vale of Anguish. Here, odd rock formations stood, piles of rubble that often looked more like men than rocks should, almost as if monstrous deformed beings had been turned to stone.