Worldbinder (27 page)

He moaned in pain and peered about, but there was no light.

“Fallion,” Rhianna whispered urgently. “Draw heat from me.”

He wondered how she had gotten here. He tried to
recall what the weather had been like when he went to sleep last night, but everything was a blank. All that he knew was bitter cold and pain.

“Draw heat from me, Fallion,” Rhianna whispered urgently.

Without thought, Fallion reached out and pulled a little warmth from her. She gasped in pain, and instantly Fallion regretted what he’d done. He lay there trembling from the cold, numb and filled with pain.

Rhianna pressed herself against him. She could feel him trembling all over. She’d never known anyone to shake so badly. Even as a child, when the strengi-saats had taken her into the forest, wet and nearly naked, she had not suffered so.

Now, Rhianna began to shiver too, and she felt as if she were sinking endlessly into deep, icy water.

She dared not tell Fallion that she was afraid he was killing her. My life is his, she told herself. It always has been, and it always will be.

But something in her ached. She didn’t want to die without really ever having lived. Her childhood had been spent with her mother, running and hiding endlessly from Asgaroth. Then for years, her mind and body were taken captive by Shadoath. For a couple of years she had finally been free, but every minute of her freedom had been a torment, for she had fallen in love with Fallion so deeply that her life was no longer her own.

I don’t want to die without ever having learned to live, she told herself, and lay there with teeth chattering, struggling to give Fallion her warmth.

Slowly, Fallion became aware of his predicament. His legs and arms were bound tightly, cutting off the circulation. It seemed to make the cold keener. He remembered the squeak of wagon wheels, the jostling. The muggy air in the stone box.

But now they were somewhere outside the box. He could feel an open space above, and suddenly heard a wyrmling’s barking growl in another room.

We’re in a building, he realized. Distantly, he heard the chatter of a squirrel, and if he listened hard, he could hear nesting birds up above, cheeping to their mother.

We’re in the woods, he realized. It’s daylight outside.

The night came flooding back to him—the battle at Cantular, his ruthless attackers, the news that Talon was dead. Despair washed through him.

I must get free, he thought. If I don’t do it, no one can. He tried to clear his mind of numbness, of fatigue, of pain.

He reached out with his mind, felt for sources of heat. He touched lightly on Rhianna, Jaz, and Talon. She was still warm, too warm.

Talon’s alive! he realized, tears filling his eyes. But the spell that the Knight Eternal had cast had drained her, leaving her torpid, near death.

“Talon’s alive,” Fallion whispered for the benefit of Jaz and Rhianna, “barely.” Rhianna began to sob in gratitude.

Fallion reached out, quested farther, and found the wyrmlings in another room, off to his right. There were several of them. Their huge bodies were warm.

He wouldn’t need to drain much from them. He touched them, let their warmth flood him.

There was a shout in the other room. “Eckra, Eckra!”

Heavy feet rushed through the door, and Fallion heard the rustle of robes. He knew what was coming. The Knight Eternal would drain him of all heat.

Unless I drain him first, Fallion thought.

In a desperate surge, Fallion reached up to drain the life’s warmth from the Knight Eternal. To do so would require more control than he had ever mastered.

But as he did, he discovered too late that the creature looming above him had no life’s heat. It was as cold as the stone floor beneath them.

“Eckra,” it cursed, and suddenly the cold washed over Fallion again, and he was lost in a vision of winter, where icy winds blew snow over a frozen lake, and
somehow Fallion was trapped beneath the ice, peering up from the cold water, longing for air, longing for light, longing for warmth.

High King Urstone sprinted through the early morning, a thousand warriors at his back, as they raced along.

With the great change, dirt and grasses had sprung up over the old road in a single night. It didn’t erase the road so much as leave a light layer of soil over it with clumps of stubble growing here and there. The wyrmling trail was easy to follow.

There was only one set of wagon tracks in the dust, along with the tracks of a dozen wyrmling warriors.

They stopped at a brook that burbled over the road, and several men bellied down to drink. It was the heat of the day, and sweat rolled off them. A few cottonwood trees shaded the brook, making it a welcome spot, and King Urstone shouted out, “Ten minutes. Take ten minutes here to rest.”

He saw a fish leap at a gnat in the shadows, and watched for a moment. There was a pair of fat trout lying in the water.

Warlord Madoc came up at his back, and asked, “Will we catch them today, do you think?” At first the king thought that the warlord was talking about the fish. King Urstone shook his head, trying to rid it of cobwebs and weariness.

“Aye, we’ll catch them,” the king assured him. “We got a late start, but it should be enough. The wyrmlings are forced by their nature to travel at night. But the days are far longer than the nights, this time of year. We should be on them well before dark.”

Madoc nodded and seemed to find no fault with the logic. That was odd. It seemed to the king that Madoc always sought to find fault with his logic nowadays.

“It will be a rough fight,” Madoc said, “with two Knights Eternal in the battle.”

“We have weapons to fight them with,” the king said.

Madoc bore one of those weapons, a dainty sword that was nearly useless in his immense hand. He pulled it from its sheath, showed it to the High King. A patina of rust had formed on the fine steel blade. “Sisel said that these had been blessed, but I say they’re cursed. This rust has been spreading like a fungus since dawn.”

The High King smiled, not in joy, but in admiration for the enemies’ resourcefulness. “I would say that they are both blessed and cursed. We will have to put that sword to good use before it rots away into nothingness.”

“You gave that fool Alun one of these swords to bear,” Madoc said. “Will you let him bear it into battle?”

“You call him a fool? You are the one who made him a warrior, and he acquitted himself well in battle this morning, by all accounts. Do you now regret your choice?”

“Of course not,” Madoc blustered. “But… he has no training with the sword, and it is an enchanted weapon!”

“Your point is well taken,” King Urstone said. Alun had fallen behind the war party. He didn’t have a warrior’s legs, couldn’t hope to keep pace. The king had assigned some men to help him along, even if they had to lug him like a sack of turnips.

The king’s mind turned to worries about his own son, and so he suggested, “Perhaps we should find another to bear it. Your son Connor, he is trained with the sword, is he not? It is said that he’s quite good. Would he like the honor?”

“I, I, uh—” Madoc blustered. He knew his son was clumsy with the sword. He had a strong arm, more fitted to the ax. More importantly, he wasn’t about to send his son charging into battle against the Knights Eternal, enchanted sword or no.

King Urstone fought back the urge to laugh.

Madoc often complains to his friends that I’m a fool, King Urstone realized, but the man has never fared well in a match of wits with me. “Have no worries,” Urstone said at last. “
I
will bear that sword into battle, and cleave off the head of a Knight Eternal.”

It was altogether fitting that the king do it. Urstone had been trained with the sword from childhood, and there were few men alive who could hope to match him with it. More importantly, it was said in Luciare that “the king bears upon his shoulders the hopes of the nation.” In ancient times, it was believed that the combined hopes of a people could give a warrior strength in battle.

These weapons were enchanted with old magic. Perhaps, Urstone thought, there is old magic in me, too.

Thus, the fight that he was racing to was not just a battle between two individuals. Urstone would be pitting the hopes of Luciare against the powers of Lady Despair.

Madoc grunted, “That would be best, I think. Yes, that would be well.”

Urstone peered hard at him. He doesn’t hope for my success in battle, he realized. He hopes to see me die.

Yes, how convenient would that be, King Urstone slain in a glorious combat, a hero’s death, leaving Madoc to rule the kingdom.

But I have a son still, a son who can spoil his plans.

Tonight at dusk the trade is supposed to be made, only a dozen hours from now.

“Wish me luck?” the king asked.

“Most assuredly,” Madoc said. “My hopes rest upon you.”

Nightfall was many hours away when a wyrmling guard came from the watch room, crashing down the stairs three at a time.

“Humans are coming, warrior clan!” he roared. “The road is black with them!”

Vulgnash leapt to his feet. For two hours he had been sitting with nothing to do, listening only to the occasional talk of the small folk in their room, whispering in their strange tongue, as quiet as mice. He had strained his ears. He knew that he would not be able to understand the meanings of their words. He had no context to put them in, but often, he had found, when learning a new language, it
was best to begin by familiarizing himself with the sounds. He had been silently cataloguing the vowels and consonants, occasionally trying them out on his tongue.

Now, with a battle coming, there were other matters to attend to.

He raced up to the tower. The sunlight was as bright as a blade there, slanting down from the east. There was no cloud cover.

To the south he could see the human war band, sunlight glancing off their bone helms, as yellow as teeth. The men ran in single file, bloody axes in their hands. In the distance, racing down the winding road, they looked like a huge serpent, snaking toward the horizon for almost a mile.

They would reach the fortress in less than half an hour.

His captain raced up behind Vulgnash. “Master, shall we evacuate, head into the woods?”

There were trees all around. Leaves hung thick upon the oaks and alders. But they would not offer the protection that Vulgnash needed. His wyrmling troops could cope with the light much better than Vulgnash could.

“No, we’ll fight them here.”

The captain tried not to show fear, but he drew back. Vulgnash was condemning him to death.

“I’ll deepen the shadows around the fortress,” Vulgnash said, “and I will place the touch of death upon each of you, give you my blessing. And I have these—” he reached to a pouch at his throat, pulled it hard enough to snap the rawhide band that held it. The bag was heavy with harvester spikes.

“Take three to a man,” Vulgnash told him, placing the bag in the captain’s palm, “no more.”

The wyrmling commander smiled. He and his men would die, but it would be a glorious death, fighting gleefully in a haze of bloodlust, lost to all mortal care.

“Shall I have the men kill the captives,” the commander asked, “as a precaution?”

Normally, that is what Vulgnash would have done. He
would have made sure that no matter what effort the humans spent, they would lose in the end.

But his master’s command was upon him, and Vulgnash always executed her commands to perfection.

“No, leave them,” he said in resignation. “If the warriors win through, I may have to come back and take them again.”

They’re going to kill me, Alun thought, as he raced along the road. Connor and Drewish are going to kill me now. Don’t let the dogs get behind me.

He worried about Connor and Drewish. The fact that wyrmling warriors might be on the road ahead, led by the immortal Knights Eternal, somehow did not seem as sinister.

Of course, he was falling-down weary.

His legs had turned to mush, and he could run no more. He was wheezing like a dying man, unable to get enough air no matter what, and chills ran through him while beads of sweat stood out cold upon his brow.

They charged up a hill through the woods, and Alun stumbled and sprawled on his face. For a moment he lay on the ground, laid out like a dead toad, and he was happy, for so long as he was on the blessed ground, he could rest.

“Up with you,” a soldier chided, grabbing him by the arm and yanking. Another soldier took him by the other arm, and soon they were carrying him, each of them cruelly holding an arm. “Move those legs, damn it. There are wyrmlings ahead, and we need you to fight them all for us.”

Alun knew that he would be no good in this fight. There had been three harvester spikes in the little packet that he’d found, but he had dropped that somewhere back at the fort. He’d searched the floor for it, but never found the spikes. He felt dirty and shameful for having used them at all. They were, after all, made from glands taken from folks captured at Caer Luciare. Folks like Sir Croft,
or that little boy, Dake, that had disappeared last month. The harvester spikes were an affront to all decency. Yet now as he went into battle, he yearned for the thrill he’d felt before. Without them, he would be lost.

Suddenly there was shouting up ahead, “We’ve cornered them! We’ve got them!”

And the soldiers went charging up the hill, trees whisking by on either side, bearing Alun like a marionette.

Alun hoped that the battle would be over by the time that he reached the spot, but they came upon an old hill fort formed from great gray slabs of basalt. Trees grew up around it, and brush and blackberry vines, leaving it a ruin, hidden in gloom.

Indeed, the gloom grew thick around it, so dark that one could almost not see the door. The harder that Alun peered, the deeper the shadows seemed to thicken, until the door was just a yawning pit in the blackness.

Even as he watched, the darkness seemed to readjust. Shadows that should have fallen from the east now twisted, coming from the north or west.

Whatever hid in that fort, it did not want to be seen.