“I thought at first that the collapse of the tunnel had slowed them,” Sisel wondered aloud. “But that cannot be it.”
Suddenly, it seemed that his eyes caught the light of one of the thumb-lanterns, and they went wide.
“The wyrmlings will come, they must come. But when they do, we must hold them off until dawn. Unless … Quickly—gather the people. Get them to the eastern end of the city!”
The soldiers all stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Sisel was no warrior lord, with the right to command. No one seemed to be in command.
“Quickly,” Daylan shouted, for he seemed to divine the wizard’s plan, “do as he says!”
Areth Sul Urstone had never been inside a wyrmling temple, where those who hoped to receive wyrms committed foul deeds in order to prepare themselves for immortality. He had never wanted to be in one. He had only heard of the bloody rites performed there in whispered legend.
Areth was too weak from hunger and pain to stand. But he heard the red-robed priests shout in triumph. They stood with their backs to him, on a dais near the front of the temple. They suddenly backed away from an altar. One of the priests gripped a sacrificial knife.
Upon the altar, the wyrmling boy that had given Areth his endowment jerked, his legs pumping uselessly, as if in a dream he ran one final race with death.
Then the boy stopped, his muscles eased, and he lay still, blood dribbling from the open wound at his throat. His eyes stared uselessly toward the heavens.
With that, a bond was broken. Most of the ache and fatigue that Areth had felt eased away, dissipating slowly, as if it had all been an evil dream.
“Well done,” the emperor whispered. A wyrmling priest stuck his thumb into the blood at the boy’s throat, then pressed the bloody thumb between the child’s eyes, anointing him.
He stepped down from the dais, crossed the stone floor, and pressed his bloody thumb between Areth’s eyes, anointing him with the child’s blood.
Around Areth, on the stone benches beneath the altar, a crowd of wyrmling supplicants made a low moaning noise, a groan of ecstasy.
Areth closed his eyes and waited for the wyrm to take him. He thought that it would be a violent act, that he’d know when it came. He thought that he would feel a sense of entrapment, like a creature being forced into a cage.
Instead he felt a rush of euphoria.
The child’s endowment had been stripped from him, and Areth Sul Urstone, who had endured greater tortures than any man had ever known, was suddenly free of pain.
Over the past fourteen years his body had become so accustomed to torture that the sudden absence was like a balm, sweet and soothing beyond measure.
But it was more than just physical pain that he found himself freed from. There was something more, something that only the presence of a great wyrm could explain. He suddenly felt released of all responsibility, of all guilt.
All of his life, his well-exercised sense of morality had guided his every deed.
Suddenly it was stripped away, and he perceived that he had been living his life in shackles. For the first time he was truly free—free to take whatever he wanted; free to kill or steal or maim.
Areth leaned his head back and laughed at the folly of the world.
“It is done,” the emperor cried, and wyrmling priest’s eyes went wide. It seemed that he could not drop to his knees and prostrate himself fast enough. “The Lady Despair walks among us in the flesh—” the emperor shouted, “let all obey her will.”
In the temple, the crowd let loose with cries of rapture. As one the wyrmlings fell down upon their faces, so that Areth was ringed by a throng of worshipers.
Areth felt surprised at first, but recognized the truth. Yes, Lady Despair was with him, the Queen of the Loci who had lived from the beginning.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined her just-discarded form, a world wyrm that now lay dead, floating in a pool of molten lava, a deserted husk.
Yaleen moved Areth’s hand, stared at it as if it were some foreign object. How long has it been since I have worn a human form? she wondered.
“You shall call me by a new name,” the Lady announced to her followers. “My name is Yaleen, as it was in the beginning; and you shall call me by a new title: I am your Lord Despair.”
Yaleen closed his eyes, and images flashed in his mind, the view of the world as seen from the eyes of a thousand evil creatures and men. A great war was brewing. Wyrmling troops had begun to destroy the newly discovered human settlements, harvesting the small ones, but now the small ones were arming themselves with bows of steel, mounting knights in armor with great lances. They would fight tooth and nail for their lives.
In the underworld, Yaleen’s great servants, the reavers stood ready to enforce his will.
Upon the One True World, the last remnants of the Bright Ones fled from his Darkling Glories.
But most imposing upon his vision was the city of Luciare. Yaleen’s Death Lord now held the city in his grip. Its troops had been slaughtered, and its doors were broken. Vulgnash had carried Fallion down from the mount and was flying rapidly to the courts of Rugassa.
The Death Lord waited now only for Yaleen’s final command.
Areth Sul Urstone had given his soul to save this city. Now, some small corner of his mind that still functioned peered at the miserable wreckage. He could not remember why he had paid such a price.
Yaleen sent his thoughts out, like a dark and grasping hand, and probed for the mind of his servant.
Leagues away at the ruins of Mount Luciare, the Death Lord now felt a familiar touch to his mind, and whispered, “Master, reveal thy will. What shall I do with this city?”
There was a moment of hesitation. Areth Sul Urstone felt almost as if Yaleen waited to consult him, to let him make the choice.
I gave my soul for my people, Areth reminded Yaleen.
Yet what did they give you in return? Yaleen asked. They left you in prison to die in torment. They never mounted an expedition to rescue you, never offered a coin to buy your freedom. You gave your all for them. And they offered you nothing in return. For many years now, they have laughed and loved in your absence. They have thrown their feasts and spawned their children. They have forgotten you.
The words felt like truth. How many times had Areth lain in his cell, wondering if anyone worried for him, or even remembered his name?
Areth felt empty inside, numb and lifeless. He no longer hoped for rescue. He needed none. Now he felt hurt. He only wanted to strike back at these petty creatures who had left him to his fate.
The choice was made.
“Go into the city, and make of it a tomb,” Yaleen whispered to the Death Lord.
The Death Lord shouted a command, and with a roar his troops raced through the ruptured gates.
Yaleen opened his eyes and gazed down now upon the wyrmlings in the temple, all lying prostrate before him. For countless millennia, Yaleen had longed for this moment—when the great wyrm could claim the soul of an Earth King.
Now, in triumph, Yaleen raised his left hand and peered down upon the wyrmling hosts that prostrated themselves. “I choose you,” he shouted, his commanding voice echoing through the stone chambers. “I choose you for the twisted Earth.”
He felt a connection establish between himself and his acolytes, like an invisible thread that bound him to each and every soul in the room. He would know where they were at all times. He would sense when they were in danger and he would utter the warnings that would spare their lives.
Thus, his armies would sweep across the worlds, destroying everyone who opposed him.
In Caer Luciare, thousands of women and children gathered at the eastern edge of the city, filling every room and every tunnel. They stood silently, straining to hear. The terror in the tunnels was palpable, and lay thick in their throats. Some of the children whimpered.
With a roar, the wyrmling troops flooded into the warrens, their Death Lord leading the way.
Insi
de the city, dark as a tomb, the floors rumbled beneath iron-shod feet, and wyrmling cries shattered the stillness.
“They are coming!” guards shouted down the corridors, each man gripping his weapon, falling back behind the Wizard Sisel. The warrior clans stood ready to oppose the enemy for as long as possible.
Siyaddah looked toward her father. At her side, her father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
The city’s long war with the wyrmlings was over, and the men of Luciare had lost.
The wizard glanced down the halls one last time. He waited for long and long, until the wyrmlings could be seen down the corridor, the lights winking out before them. A dark, nebulous form floated ahead—the Death Lord, eager to feed.
The guards backed off, leaving Sisel alone to bar the way. The Earth Warden raised his staff protectively, singing an incantation so softly that Siyaddah could not hear his words.
At Sisel’s back, the people huddled.
“Fear not,” Siyaddah’s father called out. “The Death Lord feeds on fear.” His command was fruitless. The women and the children still sobbed. But it gave them some comfort to hear from a warlord, particularly one of her father’s stature. With Madoc and High King Urstone both dead, the warriors were confused as to whom to follow. Had one of Madoc’s foolish sons had the wits, he would have stepped into the breach and taken command. But Siyaddah’s father was filling that void.
Lights winked out in the darkened corridor as the Death Lord drew near.
The Wizard Sisel raised his staff, as if welcoming the creature to battle. “So, my old friend,” Sisel said, “you come to me at last.”
“We were never friends,” the Death Lord whispered.
“You were my master,” Sisel said. “I loved you as a friend. My respect for you never languished. My faithfulness never faltered. It was you who faltered….”
“Do you expect a reward?” the Death Lord demanded. “I have little to offer.”
Siyaddah breathed, and the breath steamed from her throat. The walls of the cavern had suddenly grown icy, rimed with frost. Already, the Death Lord was leeching the life from the seeds and herbs here.
“Come then,” the Wizard Sisel said, “and give me what you can.”
With a cry like wind screaming among the rocky crags of some mountain cavern, the Death Lord came, rushing toward Sisel.
Wyrmlings by the dozens followed in its wake.
The wizard stood calmly as if waiting, and as the Death Lord neared, he swung his staff.
But he swung too early. The Death Lord was still at least a pace away.
The dark specter halted for half an instant as the wizard’s swing went wide.
He missed! Siyaddah realized, fear rising up in her throat.
Then the staff struck the wall. Rocks and dirt exploded outward by the ton, and a crude opening gaped wide.
Beyond the fissure, dawn light was beginning to fill the skies. The rising sun rimmed the horizon in shades of pink, as was befitting a perfect summer morn.
At the touch of the sunlight, the Death Lord shrieked, and for an instant it seemed that the shadow gained more substance, becoming a creature of flesh. She could see a man, like her, not a wyrmling. His face was lined with countless crags, as if he had aged and aged for a thousand years. His eyes were a sickly yellow, and his silver hair hung as limp as cobwebs.
He held up his hands, as if seeing them for the first time in centuries, and shrieked in terror.
His hand looked like ragged paper, torn and aged. But it was thin and insubstantial, a ragged leathery covering wrapped over a hollow spirit.
At that instant, the Wizard Sisel swung his staff again, catching the Death Lord with a backswing, and its dusky form exploded into a cloud of dust.
Confronted by the sunlight, stunned by the loss of their master, the wyrmlings shrieked in pain and horror as the warriors of Luciare plunged into their ranks.
“Hold them back!” Siyaddah’s father shouted at the guards, racing into the fray. “Hold them back.”
“Go, now!” Sisel cried to the people. “Run while you can!”
Suddenly, hundreds of soldiers began shouting, “Flee, this way! Run!”
Already there were crowds shoving at the wizard’s back, trying to make their way into the light. Siyaddah found herself being pushed forward. She longed to stay with her father, fight at his side, but she was like a leaf carried by a stream, out through the tunnel.
In a moment she found herself at the lip of a precipice. The sides of the hill fell away steeply below, but not so steeply that one could not climb down with care.
She did not go with care. Someone shoved her from behind, so that she went sliding and tumbling in the scree. She managed to grasp onto a small tree and pull herself upright.
People were falling behind her, rolling down the hill, like an avalanche of flesh. Siyaddah got her footing and darted from their path, angling down and away from the steady stream of humanity.
The sun crested a tree, and its light struck Siyaddah full in the face.
I made it, she thought in wonder. I’m alive!
Far away, Vulgnash raced through the sky, winging just above the treetops of a great pine forest, racing from the rising sun. He used his flameweaver’s skills to draw the light into him, so that he was but a shadow in the predawn. But it wasn’t enough.
The light blinded him and pained him. He roared in frustration as he dove beneath the trees, seeking the shadows of the forest, and perhaps some cave to hide in from the coming day.
In a daze, Fallion heard the roars and for a long moment struggled to regain consciousness. His eyes opened, and he strained to peer upward, saw the monster that held him as if he were a slumbering child.
The Knight Eternal.
He’s taking me away, Fallion realized. He’s taking me to Rugassa, where he hopes to break me.
But Fallion knew something that his captor could not. He remembered now, his life from before.
I am eternal, he realized. They can kill me, and I will come back. They can beat me, and I will heal.
But I will not break. How can I, knowing how much the world depends on me?
The sleeper had awoken.
Fallion felt the heat all around him. He reached out stealthily with his mind, sought to grasp it.
Instantly, Vulgnash felt the touch, and drew heat from Fallion, slamming him back into unconsciousness.
But Vulgnash looked down at the small one, this young wizard, and felt alarmed.
In his pain and fatigue, Vulgnash had nearly missed Fallion’s probe. In another hundredth of a second, the boy could have sucked the heat from the air and made his attack.
Lady Despair was watching. Vulgnash felt the touch of his master. “Careful, my pet,” Lady Despair whispered. “I need the boy. I need him, though he can destroy us. You must be ever vigilant.”
“Fear not,” Vulgnash whispered as he stepped into the deep shadows thrown by the pines. “I will serve you perfectly, as always.”
Far away on the slopes of Mount Luciare, the folk of the city fled through fields, the golden sunlight all around. Wildflowers grew in abundance in the fields, huge white daisies rising up from the golden wheat, while flowering thistles dotted the hill with purple.
Few of the folk had been injured in the mad stampede to escape the city. By rough estimate, some forty thousand inhabitants still lived.
But Rhianna knew that they were in trouble.
She now glided above the people on leathery wings, riding the morning thermals. She used her height to keep watch both ahead of the group and behind. The wyrmlings did not give chase. They were hidden now within Caer Luciare.
But there was panic on the peoples’ faces. They could run, but how far, and for how long? Women and children would not be able to outrace wyrmling troops. Moreover, they only had one direction that they could go to escape—toward Cantular. The lands elsewhere were all flooded, and if the Wizard Sisel was right, Luciare was quickly becoming an is
land in an endless sea.
A hundred miles they would need to run in a day.
Rhianna wondered, And even if they make it, where will they find refuge?
After the better part of an hour, the Emir of Dalharristan called the people to a halt. Not all of the people were warriors, bred to battle, and many of them were already gasping for breath. Some of the wounded had to be carried. Among that number was Talon, who still lay in a swoon.
Rhianna looked around and realized that she could see no way to save them.
During the brief halt, Rhianna dropped to the ground, giving her wings a rest.
The Wizard Sisel, the Emir, and Daylan Hammer held a brief counsel, speaking rapidly. Rhianna could not understand what they said, and no one bothered to translate.
Daylan Hammer explained to Rhianna, “We are trapped. The women and children will not be able to outrun the wyrmling hordes. But there is still a chance that we can save them—a small chance.”
“What chance?” Rhianna asked.
“I will open a door through fire and air….”
Instantly, she knew what he was planning. And she knew the dangers. “Into the netherworld? You can’t! These poor folk, they won’t know what they are getting into.”
Rhianna had been there as a child, for a few months. Daylan had managed to keep them hidden, but the magics in that land were strong and strange. To Rhianna’s mind, she’d rather face the wyrmlings.
“I must risk it—an uncertain future over certain death.”
“Your own people will not accept them,” Rhianna argued. “The White Council—”
“Is broken. My people are destroyed. Those who survive are hunted and helpless. If any of them find us, perhaps they will rejoice to discover allies.”
Rhianna bit her lip, in doubt. Daylan’s people would not rejoice, she knew. People from her world were scorned. “Shadow men” they were called.
“I will help you all that I can,” Rhianna said.
But Daylan shook his head. “This task is not for you. Your people need you. They need to be warned. They need to prepare for the wyrmling attacks that will surely come. And now that you wear wings, there is no one better than you to warn them.”
Worldbinder Page 35
