Worldbinder (26 page)

He still had one ax, though the head had broken off of the other and he held its haft in his hand. He was swinging
his good ax into the corpse of a wyrmling, screaming, “Die you cur! Die, you damned pig!”

There were a dozen wyrmlings sprawled on the floor, each of them hacked to pieces.

Several human soldiers were standing in a doorway, peering at him and laughing.

Alun’s heart still raced as if it would explode, and his arm felt so tired that he did not think it would heal in a week. He had a bad gash on his forehead, and blood was flowing down over his eyes. And the other soldiers were laughing at him.

“Here now,” a commanding voice said, “that’s enough of that, lad. You killed ’em already.” The soldiers guffawed.

Alun peered up in shock. It was a captain.

“I killed them?” Alun asked, not believing his ears. But the memories rushed through his mind, ghoulish apparitions.

The captain walked up, pulled the spike from Alun’s neck, and gave him a bandage to staunch the wound.

“You’re lucky—” the captain said, “a little fellow like you, fighting like a harvester.” He held up the bloody spike. “It gives you strength and speed and murderer’s instinct, but it was made for a wyrmling that stands eight feet tall and weighs five hundred pounds. You took a monster’s dose. You’re lucky that your heart didn’t explode.”

Alun suddenly felt weak. The glandular extracts were leaving his body, and it was all that he could do to stand up. He was breathing hard, gasping for breath, and cold sweat dimpled his forehead.

The captain shouted orders to the men, “Clean this place out! Leave no door unopened, no cubby-hole unchecked. Be sure of every enemy. The king wants the heads off of them. Bring them out into the light of day, and throw them in the courtyard.”

So the grisly work began. Alun spent the next fifteen minutes feeling sick, staunching the flow of blood from
the gouge in his forehead, wrapping his head up in a bloody bandage, and hacking the head off of a dead wyrmling and lugging it out of doors.

He tried to remember how he had gotten the wound, but could not account for it. He tried to remember where his helmet had come off, but never could find it.

He discovered that the troops had entered a barracks, had caught the wyrmlings sleeping. Many of them did not even have their armor on.

When he was finished, he was a bloody mess, and the captains came through and counted every body, then went out and counted every head.

The king and the warlords came now, admiring the heads stacked in a pile. Connor and Drewish were still there, at the king’s back. Neither of them had bloodied themselves in battle.

Drewish leered at Alun, seeming to enjoy the spectacle of him wounded.

Imagine how he would laugh to see you dead, a little voice whispered in Alun’s mind.

“Two hundred and fifty,” the captain reported to the warlords. “That would be five squadrons, even.”

“And of our own dead?” King Urstone asked.

“Fifty and four.”

“Not bad,” someone whispered in the line beside Alun, but he saw the king’s face, saw him mourn. He had too few warriors as it was. He regretted losing even one man.

“And what of the Knights Eternal?” the king asked.

“No one saw any sign of them,” the captain confirmed.

King Urstone nodded, looked worried, and then the troops headed across the bridge.

By then the fog was lifting, and Alun found that he was unaccountably hungry. The long run of the day before, a sleepless night, the hot work—all combined to build his appetite.

So they raced across the bridge, and Alun was surprised to see the water so high, the trees and wreckage floating down the muddy river.

They reached the far shore, found the drawbridge down. Their own men cheered their entry, and Alun realized, We’ve taken it! We’ve taken Cantular!

It was the first real victory for mankind in many years, and the cheers were bounteous, over-excited.

Like boys who have bloodied the nose of a bully, Alun thought, not knowing that the fight has just begun.

“Search every building!” the king shouted. “Look in every house, every market stall. I want word of the Knights Eternal, and of their prisoners.”

The king and his counselors went striding down the street, heading toward the east end of town. The men began to fan out, searching in every direction. Alun just followed the king, following along in his wake. He was afraid that someone would stop him, make him go and do some real work, but no one did.

They reached the markets, found the stall where the battle had taken place. It wasn’t hard to find. The walls of the home here had peeled back, and the roof had been thrown off. There were scorch marks on the wooden platform where the battle had been fought.

The king and the warlords climbed the platform, looking around. Alun didn’t feel comfortable following them up there, and so he went to the side of the house. There were some rags draped over a bush, and he stood by them for a second.

Clothes, he realized. Too small for our people.

He peered into the bushes, saw a leather backpack behind the clothes and a sword on the ground.

“Your majesty,” someone shouted. “I found something.”

Alun grabbed the sword, saw a marvelous battle-staff lying nearby. He grabbed it and the pack, and began stuffing it with clothes. Then a couple of other soldiers were there beside him, combing the bushes for more.

Alun raced up onto the platform, and dropped the spoils there on the scorched wood. Others were doing the same. More clothes, some packs, a bow made of reaver horn, and arrows.

The men laid out the goods on the ground, and the Emir of Dalharristan bent to inspect them. “Don’t draw those swords. Don’t touch anything. We don’t know what kind of curses might be laid upon these things.”

He looked first at the bow of ruddy reaver’s bone, using the toe of his boot to flip it over. “There are no glyphs upon it,” he said, “at least not that I can see.”

The Wizard Sisel reached down with his staff, bent so low to the floor that he almost touched it with his head. He sniffed at the bow. “But there are blessings on it,” he said. “It is clean. I can smell the virtue in it.”

The king looked at the wizard doubtfully. “But the power to bless has been lost. That is old magic!”

“Not on the world where these come from.” Sisel peered at the sword as Alun lay it down. “Draw that blade, young man.”

Alun did. The steel was lighter than steel should be, and gleamed like polished silver. “A fine blade,” Sisel said. “Their steel is better than ours.”

Sisel peered up at the soldiers all around him. “No one use that blade, at least not against a common foe. There is a blessing on it. Save it for the Knights Eternal, or better yet, the emperor himself.”

“Who will carry this sword?” High King Urstone asked.

None of the lords dared step forward, and Alun dared not offer to keep it. But the High King smiled at him. “Sir Alun, is it not?” the High King asked as if they had never spoken. “You are our new … Master of the Hounds?”

“Aye, milord.”

The High King looked up to the bloody rag tied around Alun’s head. “You look as if you’ve acquitted yourself admirably in this battle. Were you able to draw any blood?”

Alun fumbled for something to say, his mouth working aimlessly. Some soldier nearby guffawed. “He did more than draw blood. He slew near a dozen.”

There were gulps of astonishment from the gathered lords, and Alun saw Drewish, there at the king’s back, glare at him dangerously.

“Proof once again that it is not just the size of a warrior that determines the battle,” Sisel said, exchanging a look with the king.

He’s talking about the small folk, Alun realized. I wonder what has been said?

“Well then,” High King Urstone said gently, “it looks as if we have a new champion among us. Will you do the honor of bearing this sword until we can return it to its rightful owner?”

Alun gripped the sword experimentally. It was strong and powerful and light in his hand, not like the heavy axes that he had been forced to bear. “Aye, milord. It would be an honor.”

The king smiled. He studied the marvelous staff, with its gems set near the top, and runes carved along its length. He peered up at the Wizard Sisel. “Would you take this?”

Sisel shook his head sadly. “That staff was not meant for me. It fits a man of a smaller stature.” He looked to the Emir. “It would suit you well.”

The Emir picked it up, swung it expertly, and it was his, at least for the time being.

The men went back sorting through the treasure. In one pack, they found a small bag, and within the bag was a golden signet ring. The ring featured an ancient symbol—the face of a man with oak leaves for his head and beard.

“This is a dangerous thing,” the Emir said, shoving it aside with his toe. “One should not lightly bear it, especially among the woods.”

“The glyph of the Wode King?” Urstone asked.

“Spirits are drawn to it,” the Emir said. “No man should carry such a token.”

“Unless—” the wizard Sisel said, his brow furrowed into a frown, “he bears it by right.”

Sisel himself drew his powers from the earth, and his
powers were greatest in the forest. He seemed not to fear the strange ring.

“Do you have the right to bear it?” King Urstone asked.

“No,” the Wizard Sisel said after a long moment of thought, “but I
will
take the risk, until we find the one who does.” He picked it up swiftly, shoved it into a pocket of his robe.

Suddenly, Alun had a strange feeling, as if a cold wind were blowing through him, as if unseen spirits encircled him. He found himself wishing that he were anywhere but here.

The lords pawed through the packs, finding bits of food. There were trinkets scattered among them—a locket with a woman’s face painted upon it, a bracelet made of shells. But nothing seemed to be of import.

A soldier came after a bit, dragging a pair of red wings with him. “We found this in their armory—the wings from a Knight Eternal.”

That was a great treasure indeed, for anyone could wear those wings, and the king knew that his lords would fight over them. “By ancient law,” King Urstone said, “I decree that these wings will belong to the man who slew our enemy.” He nodded to the soldier, “Keep them safe until we find the rightful owner.”

It was moments later that one of the soldiers on the ground shouted, “I found another pack.”

This one had not been opened. Beyond the foodstuffs, a man’s clothes and mementos, this one held a leather bag.

When the king dumped its contents onto the floor, the wizard Sisel whistled in admiration. It held nearly a hundred smooth rods made from some rusty looking metal.

“These are a runelord’s forcibles,” Sisel said, holding the rods up for the king to see. “We must get these to the castle at once.”

The king did not speak openly before the men about the forcibles’ use. Instead, he nodded secretively, then sent a detail of four men to carry them back to the castle.

It was moments later that a captain came and reported,
“We’ve searched the city. There are no signs of the prisoners that were taken here last night, or of the Knights Eternal. But there are fresh wagon marks on the road north, and many feet have trod it.”

“So,” Madoc said, “they’ve gone north.”

The morning was half over. Most likely, the wyrmlings were far, far ahead.

“We must follow, then,” King Urstone said. “We must reach them before nightfall.”

    26    

Fallion came to, rising up out of dreams of ice and snow. Ice water seemed to be flowing through his veins instead of blood. His hands and feet were frozen solid. He tried to remember how he’d gotten here, when it had gotten so cold.

“Someone left the window open,” he said. That was it. Jaz liked to sleep with the bedroom window open, and often times in the fall, Fallion got too cool in the night. In his distorted dreams, he imagined that Jaz had left the window open all winter, and that was the cause of his current predicament.