Worldbinder

by David Farland

  “Yes, father,” Connor sniveled, fighting back tears of rage.

  Madoc stomped on Drewish’s shoulder. “Got it?” Madoc demanded. He swore to himself that if this one didn’t understand, he’d slash the boy’s throat with his own blade for being too slow-witted.

  “Got it,” Drewish finally agreed.

  “Good,” Madoc said. “When I get home, we’ll have a council, figure out how both of you can have a kingdom.” He thought fast. “There are these small folk that will need someone to rule them with an iron hand. They’ll need big folk to be their masters. It will require great work to subjugate them, to properly harvest their endowments. I need both of you alive. Understand?”

  Both boys nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Madoc said. He heard screams along the castle wall, one of his men shouting, “Get them! Get them. They’re coming over the wall!”

  “Now, drag your asses back home,” Madoc growled. “I’ve got a battle to fight.”

  He turned and studied the castle wall, searching for the source of the commotion, even as a huge shadow fell over him, blocking out the starlight. An enormous graak soared over the fortress. And there he saw it, a kezziard’s head rising over the north wall, its face covered in a barding made of iron chains, its silver eyes reflecting the fires.

  Warlord Madoc listened to his sons scuttle away even as his mind turned to war.

  Now comes the hard part, he thought: staying alive.

  32

  LUCIARE

  So often we celebrate life’s small victories, only to discover how life is about to overwhelm us.

  —Daylan Hammer

  “Why are they cheering so?” Jaz asked, for as they marched through the city gates, the warriors beat axes against shields and roared. Nor did the applause die, but kept growing stronger.

  Talon leaned down and said softly, “Because you slew a Knight Eternal. They saw it, and even now there are tales circulating of how you slew another at Cantular. No hero of legend has ever slain two of them. The warriors of Luciare have often driven them back from the castle, and sometimes escaped their hunts. But never do they slay the Lords of Wyrm.”

  As they entered the city, the warriors cheered Jaz and gathered around, then lifted him onto their shoulders and paraded him through the streets.

  Fallion gazed up at the city in wonder. The streets wound up through the market district here, and higher on the hill he could see a stouter wall. Above them, the lights played across the whitened walls of the mountain, flickering and ever-changing in hue, like an aurora borealis.

  Soldiers patted Fallion on the shoulder and would have borne him away, but Fallion shook his head and drew back. In his mind, the words echoed, “though the world may applaud your slaughter, you will come to know that each of your victories is mine.”

  Fallion felt a wearying sadness. Once again, men applauded him for his capacity to kill, and he could not help but worry that somehow he was furthering the enemy’s plans.

  Fallion looked around; people were smiling at him, but they were strange people, oddly proportioned. He saw a boy that could not have been more than ten, but he was almost a full head taller than Fallion.

  Shrinking back, Fallion felt very small indeed. He was a stranger in this land of giants.

  Talon had said that men of the Warrior Clans had grown large over the ages due to selective breeding. But even the commoners here seemed massive.

  The warriors’ seed has spread throughout the population, Fallion realized.

  The king was marching up through the throng, the crowd parting for him like waters before the prow of a ship. He suddenly turned and called out, peering at Fallion.

  Talon, who had been separated from Fallion in the crowd, called out the translation, from several yards away, leaping up to catch a glimpse of Fallion. “He thanks you for your help, and regrets that he must now go prepare for battle. He says that the wyrmlings will attack before dawn.” There was a question implied in that last bit. He needed help, Fallion realized, and wondered if Fallion would give it.

  Fallion drew his sword, dismayed at the rust building upon it, and put its tip to the ground. He walked forward, and the crowd parted until he stood before the High King. Fallion knelt upon one knee, bowed his head, and said, “Your Highness, my sword and my life are yours to command.”

  The king answered, and Talon translated, “Your sword and your life are yours to keep. I will not command your service, but I welcome your friendship—and that of your people.”

  “That you shall have,” Fallion said.

  The king smiled then, warmly, and a wistful look crossed his face. He whispered into the ear of the Wizard Sisel, then turned and strode up to the castle, his cape fluttering behind him.

  Fallion retreated from the throng, tried to find a place in the shadows, away from the crowd, but the Wizard Sisel sought him out. “The king will be taking counsel with his troops. He has battle plans that must be seen to. But there are matters of great import to both of you that must be discussed. He wonders if you and your friends would like to refresh yourselves, perhaps wash up, and then meet him in his council chambers for a meal.”

  “Tell him that I would be honored,” Fallion said.

  Sisel headed through the throng. Reluctantly, Fallion and the others followed him up the winding streets, through the merchants’ quarter. The air was perfumed with the honeyed scent of flowers, for beneath every window was a flower box where blossoms of pink or yellow or white grew in a riot, streaming down from the second-story windows like waterfalls. Flowering vines sprang in curtains from mossy pots that hung from the lintels. Great bushes struggled up from pots beside the doors, and small forests rose up just behind the houses, while ivy climbed every wall. Lush grass and colorful poppies rioted at the margins of the road.

  Life. Everywhere was life. Fallion had never felt so … overwhelmed by plants. It was almost oppressive. Even in the steaming forests of Landesfallen, flying among the trees upon his graak, he’d never felt so dwarfed.

  And as he passed through the gate to the upper levels of the city, light was added to the foliage. Three vast tunnels opened as portals into the mountain. The mountain walls were paneled with huge stones, all limed a brilliant white, while runes of protection were embossed in gold there upon the walls outside of each tunnel.

  Beneath each portal squatted a golden brazier, perhaps eight feet across, where pure blue-white lights flickered and played like lightning, sometimes changing hues to soft pink or fiery red.

  They were fires, but they had no source. Fallion reached out with his senses, tested them. There was no heat there, only a piercing cold.

  “What are those lights?” he asked Talon.

  She hesitated, as if he had asked her something crude. “The soul-fires of those who died guarding this city. They come each night, and guard it still.”

  Fallion veered to get a closer look as they passed under the arch, but Talon grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away, giving him a silent warning.

  “I want a glance,” he said.

  “Peering into the light is considered to be both disrespectful, and dangerous—” Talon said, “disrespectful because you would only witness the refuse of their souls, and dangerous because … seeing their beauty, you would long to become one of them. Leave those sad creatures to their duties.”

  Light and life, Fallion realized. Sisel had said that he protected the city with light and life.

  Then they were under the arches, into the tunnels, which grew dark and gloomy. The tunnels were lit by tiny lanterns that hung from hooks along the wall. Each lantern was blown from amber-colored glass and held a pool of oil beneath it. The oil traveled up a wick to a tiny chamber, where a candle-sized flame burned. Fallion had seen similar lanterns from Inkarra. There they were called “thumb lights,” for each lantern was no longer than a thumb.

  The throng broke up, warriors retreating to their own private halls, and Talon led Fallion’s group down a long passage.
The ceiling lowered and the hallway became almost cramped.

  The mountain was a warren, a dangerous warren, for portcullises and dangerous bends were strewn all along the way. If it came to fighting, Fallion could see where an army could fight and then fall back, always defending from a well-fortified position. The wyrmlings with their great height would be at a disadvantage in such tight quarters.

  We should be safe here, he thought.

  33

  THE REPORT

  One has not failed, until one has quit trying.

  —Vulgnash

  “You failed?” Lady Despair asked.

  Vulgnash knelt upon the parapet beneath Fortress Rugassa, the smell of sulfur clotting the air in the chamber as the unbearable heat rose up from the magma. The great wyrm had risen beneath him, its maw working as it spoke.

  He wore a new corpse. It was two hours past sundown. It had taken time to find a new body, to prepare the spells that invigorated it.

  Never in five millennia had he failed his master. His voice was thick with shame. “I captured the wizard, as you asked, and was bringing him here. But we were set upon by a great war party of humans. A king led them, a king upon whose shoulders rested the hope of his people. He bore a blessed sword. There was no fear in him that I could use, no hatred.”

  The great wyrm did not hesitate. “Go back,” she said. “A war party will attack Luciare this night. The battle itself shall provide a distraction. Join the battle. Kill the king who bears the hopes of his people, and when he is dead, bring the wizard to me.”

  “I will need new wings,” Vulgnash said humbly, “if I am to make it before dawn.”

  “You shall have more than wings….” Lady Despair said.

  “The branding irons from the otherworld?” Vulgnash asked, excitement rising in him. He had not had time to play with them, to test them.

  “They are called forcibles,” Lady Despair said. “There are slaves who will endow you with strength tonight. You will find them in the dungeon.”

  Vulgnash’s mind raced as he considered the implications. For centuries now, Dread Lords like the emperor had been Lady Despair’s favorites, for they were wise in the ways of death magic. But they had rejected their own flesh, and thus could not benefit from this new magic, from these forcibles.

  Vulgnash could. He could heap strength upon himself, and speed. He could become as beautiful as the moon and as fearsome as the sun. With enough forcibles, he could win back the trust and respect of his master. Indeed, Vulgnash imagined the day when he would become the new emperor.

  “Thank you, master,” he said. “Thy will be done.”

  34

  THE KING’s COUNCIL

  Even the wisest of men cannot foresee all ends.

  —Hearthmaster Waggit

  King Urstone sat in his dinner chair, shoulders slumped as if in defeat, elbows resting on the table. A feast was spread before him—a shank of roast boar, calf’s tongue, boiled baby carrots with onions, and bowls and baskets filled with breads and other things—some of which Fallion could not name. But King Urstone had not touched them.

  The king’s long white hair hung down over his shoulders, and his face was lined with creases of worry. Yet there was still strength there, and Fallion could see the handsome man that he had once been.

  As Fallion entered the room, Urstone’s blue eyes shone with an inner fire.

  No, he is not defeated yet, Fallion realized. Jaz had come to the dinner, along with Rhianna and Talon. Daylan Hammer and the Wizard Sisel had also come.

  There were various warlords at the king’s table. Like the king, they wore armor carved from bone, capes of forest green or burgundy, and cape pins with intricate designs. Fallion suspected that the pins denoted rank, but he could only guess which of the warriors were most senior.

  At the table sat another man, smaller than the warriors, with a narrow face, finely groomed beard, and chains of gold. He looked like a wealthy merchant. He smiled like a fox as Fallion entered, his dark eyes tracking him across the room. Fallion studied his face, long and oval, the smile predatory. He felt sure that he knew the man from somewhere, but could not place him.

  Fallion felt most surprised to see Siyaddah sitting at the king’s table, a pace to the king’s right. She had changed into a fresh dress of white silk, but painted with bright flowers this time, with a dark purple border.

  She looked at him, and Fallion glanced away, not wanting to catch her eye.

  The king’s voice was weary as he began to speak, as if he could not muster the energy for passion. He spoke in a deep monotone. Sisel translated, “Master Thull-turock, do you recognize these young men?”

  The merchant pointed a finger adorned with three rings at Fallion, and began to speak. “This one is the son of the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden, Fallion Sylvarresta Orden by name. I knew him when he was but a child, living at Castle Coorm. He had all the makings of a great warrior, even in his youth. He was strong and tenacious in battle, fair to those who served him, honest and humble. The young man next to him is his younger brother, Jaz. He too was a child of sound character, but he was always more interested in bugs and mice than in preparing to become a prince.”

  King Urstone smiled at that, and nodded. “As a child, I was much fascinated by fish. I used to go out to the brook and stand in the shadows of the willows for hours, spearing trout. All of that practice greatly improved my aim with the spear. Do you also like to fish, Jaz?”

  Fallion grinned. For Jaz, it bordered on an obsession.

  “I do indeed, Your Highness,” Jaz said, “but I prefer to use a hook and line.”

  King Urstone looked around his table, baffled. Sisel explained something to him. “Then,” King Urstone said with a smile, “perhaps when this is over, you could teach me how to fish with a hook and line.”

  “Gladly, Your Highness,” Jaz said.

  King Urstone sighed, and said wearily, “In the blink of an eye, the world changes. My scouts have been pouring in for two days, bringing reports. To the west, upon the plains of the hoary elephants, mountains have burst up out of the ground. Rivers had to turn their course and flow east. To the north, a great rift has appeared, a canyon so deep that the eye cannot see to the bottom. To the east, castles seemed to rise from the dust, and perhaps a million people now live among the ruins where none could have lived before.

  “They are small folk, humble folk, living in houses made of mud and sticks, covered with roofs of grass. Having seen them, I fear for them. We cannot protect them from what will surely come.

  “There are urgent reports from Cantular. A large host is rushing down from the north. Warlord Madoc will try to hold the bridge, but there are things he must battle, creatures that no one has seen before. Some are like the great graak that we saw, others he says look like hills that move upon many legs….

  “Another such horde is marching upon this city from the northeast.”

  King Urstone peered down at his hands. His brow furrowed in consternation.

  “We tried to exchange hostages with the wyrmlings, and in doing so, I may have called doom down upon my people. Already there are those who whisper that I sold my kingdom for a foolish dream, and if we live out this night, they will revolt—as they should.

  “Some say we need a miracle to save us.

  “Fallion Sylvarresta Orden,” the king said. “Is this the miracle that we need?”

  He nodded toward some guards in a corner, and they lugged an enormous wooden box out into the center of the dining hall, then spilled its contents out upon the floor.

  Thousands of metal rods rolled onto the tile. Fallion knew what they were by sound alone. There was a soft clanking, almost as if the rods were made of bamboo instead of some metal.

  Fallion rose to his feet, electrified. They were not forcibles, not yet anyway, for there were no runes cast upon their heads. But they could be turned into forcibles in short order.

  “Your Highness,” Fallion said warily, “those could be the
miracle that you are seeking. Where did you find so much blood metal?”

  The king smiled. “We call it corpuscite. There is a hill of it, not two miles from here.”

  Fallion left his seat, went to inspect the metal. He tasted it, found that it tasted salty sweet and of copper, much like blood. Pure blood metal.

  “A hill?” Fallion asked.

  “A large hill,” the king corrected. “Large enough to make … millions of these.”

  Fallion saw what he was proposing immediately. There were only thirty-eight thousand of Urstone’s people left in the world, but there were millions of Fallion’s. They needed to become allies.

  “If you called upon your people,” King Urstone asked, “would they unite with us?”

  “I … don’t know,” Fallion admitted. He hesitated to even think about it. His enemies had hunted him to the ends of the earth, yet his foster father, Sir Borenson, had longed for the day when Fallion seized control of the world, allowing poor nations to throw off the tyrants’ yokes.

  “Some would,” Fallion admitted. “But there are many lords who fear that they will lose their place if we were to unite under one banner. These lords have long sought to take my life.”

  “And failed,” the king pointed out.

  The merchant Thull-turock spoke up. “Fallion, my lad, you can buy a lot of friends with this much blood metal.”

  It was then that Fallion recognized him. He had changed. He had merged with his shadow self, but Fallion recognized him by mannerisms. No one had ever called Fallion “my lad” but one man—his mother’s facilitator, Sir Greaves. He was the one making the forcibles, and there would be no one better.

  But Fallion worried. An army was coming, a vast army. How would King Urstone’s people mine the blood metal if they were put under siege? Even worse, what if the enemy simply overwhelmed them, slaughtered them all?