Worldbinder (39 page)

Fallion peered hard at Daylan, hazarded a guess. “Are there even any left to fight?”

“A few,” Daylan demurred. “As you have deduced, your problems are but a shadow of our own. The worlds have a way of mirroring one another. My people are hunted, bereft. They live in hiding in the vast forests, a family here, and another there. We have no great war-bands that can come to your rescue.”

By now, the conversation had taken on its own rhythm. Whenever one person spoke, Talon or Sisel would offer up a translation.

“Then we are left to our own resources,” King Urstone said. “We are left to the blood metal, and to our own counsel, and to the small folk of the world.”

“And to my father,” Fallion said. “Do not forget him. There is hope there.”

“Yes,” Sisel agreed. “There is your father indeed—if we can get him out of the prison in Rugassa!”

“I don’t have the troops,” King Urstone said. “Besides, he would be slain if we try.”

“Then let us not send an army to batter down the door,” Sisel suggested, his eyes seeking out Fallion. “One warrior, or a handful of them, could be enough—if they were endowed with both the attributes and the hopes of our people….”

Fallion peered up at Siyaddah. Worry was plain on her face, worry for him. She held his gaze.

He could not speak her language, but he vowed to himself to learn.

“I will agree to such a plan,” King Urstone said. “Indeed, I would hope to be one among that handful—if we live out this night. But I fear that all hope for us is vain.
Perhaps the best that we can seek is to die valiantly in the defense of our people.”

Jaz peered up at King Urstone, and a sad smile crossed his face. “You died for your people once before, grandfather,” Jaz said. “I don’t wish to see you make a habit of it.”

    35    

At Cantular, Warlord Madoc fought for his life, swinging his battle-ax, cleaving a wyrmling’s head even though he had to strike through the creature’s helm. As the wyrmling fell, Madoc peered back across the bridge.

The fortress on the north end of the bridge was lost, and for nearly a mile along the bridge’s length the wyrmling troops were backed up, pressing to reach the fortress on the southern banks.

Madoc and his men were fighting their way into the south fortress, trying to fend off the wyrmlings on their tail. They hadn’t been able to get the drawbridge up in time, and only managed to close the portcullis gates. And so his men fought the wyrmlings as they tried to climb the gates and walls.

The floodwaters roared through the river, which was white with foam. Apparently it had rained in the mountains, and trees and brush raced past, swirling in the moil.

There had to be ten thousand wyrmlings on the bridge, while enormous graaks glided overhead, snaking down to strike at Madoc’s troops on the fortress wall.

The battle was lost. Fewer than a hundred men held the south fort, and they could not hold out for long.

But Madoc had one last trick for the wyrmlings: It was there, under the bridge—a trap, cunningly wrought. It had been there for a hundred years.

A single rope woven from cords of steel held the bridge aloft. The rope connected to a series of supports, and if it was pulled hard enough, the supports would tumble, and the bridge would collapse. Even now, the Emir and a dozen men were under the bridge, turning the great screw that would pull the cable while Madoc and his men fought.

Madoc screamed “Beware above!” as a giant graak swooped. His men hurled a dozen war darts, most of which went hurtling into the monster’s open maw, burying themselves in the roof of its mouth or in its gums. Their poison seemed to have no effect. But one dart went hurtling into the beast’s eye and disappeared in the soft tissue of its eyelid. The creature blinked furiously, snapped its head.

Madoc leapt away as the giant graak’s lower jaw hit the tower wall, knocking over stones, sweeping them away.

Then the monster was past, and wyrmling warriors leapt into the breach, howling in glee.

“Despair take you!” a great wyrmling lord shouted, leaping toward Madoc with two axes in his hand.

Madoc ducked beneath his swing, even as a battle dart whizzed past Madoc’s shoulder.

“Not today,” Madoc spat as he split the lord’s skull and then instantly kicked the wyrmling, sent him tumbling thirty feet to land on his fellows. A pale hand grasped onto the wall, and with a quick stroke, Warlord Madoc severed it from its owner.

There was a sudden grinding sound and a series of
snaps beneath the bridge as the steel rope pulled its first support free. “Beware!” the Emir shouted. “Everyone out of the way!”

Then the bridge collapsed.

The first break appeared forty yards out from the fortress. Huge blocks of stone went crashing into the wine-dark waters. Wyrmlings screamed in surprise—a fearful shout, deliriously cut all too short as they were swallowed by the river.

Then the whole bridge suddenly snapped for a mile in the distance, seeming to shatter one section after another, and great portions of it sank beneath the waves.

Dust and debris rose in the air, and the water churned, sending white plumes high, creating a silver streak across the river where the black bridge had spanned.

Only on the bulwarks, every two hundred yards, did portions of the bridge remain standing, and even those began to tilt inexorably into the river as wyrmlings screamed and tried to hold on.

Perhaps five thousand wyrmlings were suddenly gone, while here and there a few dozens or hundreds clung to portions of the bridge, now stuck out on small islands in the roaring flood.

Madoc’s men screamed and cheered and went leaping over the gates onto what little of the bridge remained intact, driving the wyrmlings toward the water.

The wyrmlings that were closest drew back a pace, tried to find the room to fight. But their fellows behind were pushed, and some of them went screaming into the waves.

Madoc turned away, left his men to finish the job. He had more urgent concerns back at Caer Luciare.

With mounting excitement he realized what a victory he had won here this night. He would be hailed as a hero at Caer Luciare. And when Urstone was dead, the people would beg him to be their new king.

All he had to do now was race back to Luciare and save what he could of the city.

    36    

After the council and dinner, King Urstone suggested that any warrior who could sleep should do so.

Rhianna wasn’t tired. She’d slept most of the day in the cart during the ride south.

Siyaddah came to Rhianna’s table and spoke softly in her strange tongue. Talon listened and said to Fallion, “All of that ogling that you have been doing must have paid off. Siyaddah has invited us to her father’s apartments to rest.”

“I didn’t make eyes at her,” Fallion objected.

Rhianna and Talon looked at each other, then both just shook their heads, as if to disabuse Fallion of the idea that they were fools.

“But tell her that we would be grateful for a bed,” Fallion said.

I’ll bet you’d be grateful, Rhianna thought—especially if she was in it.

Rhianna could not help but be jealous. She had fought beside Fallion, stood beside him for years. She had openly declared her love for Fallion only two days ago, and he had said that he loved her too. But she could see how attracted he was to this stranger.

Why doesn’t he look at me like that? she wondered.

Fallion earned a smile from Siyaddah with the news, and moments later Fallion, Jaz, Talon, and Rhianna were following Siyaddah’s shapely form through the tunnels,
until at last she stopped at a door beneath some thumb-lanterns. Words were painted in yellow beneath the lights, and Rhianna tried to remember their shapes as they entered a plush apartment.

The room was decorated in a style that somehow felt familiar to Rhianna. The walls were draped in rich, colored silks in palest blue, as if to mimic a tent. The floor was carpeted in lamb hides, their thick hair as inviting as a bed. And all around the sitting room, pillows lay for the guests to recline on. It was much like the great tents that the horse-sisters of Fleeds lived in.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Siyaddah said. She nodded, and a servant went through the room, blowing out most of the lights so that they could sleep. Rhianna went and lay down upon a huge pillow, and just rested there, thinking.

Talon apologized to Siyaddah and told Fallion, “I lived in this city until three days ago,” Talon said, “or at least my shadow self did. My father disappeared in the melding. You and I both know where he went. His two halves joined, and now he is across the Carroll Sea, on the far side of the world. But I have a mother here—not Myrrima, but the woman my father married on this world, Gatunyea. I need to go see her, to let her know that I am well, and to explain where I think father is. Will you excuse me?”

Rhianna did not envy her that sticky task.

“Go,” Fallion said, “and may luck follow on your heel.”

Talon asked permission of Rhianna and Jaz, too, for she would be leaving them without a translator.

“Would you like me to come with you,” Rhianna asked, “for moral support?”

Talon thought for a moment. “No. I think … I think that I should tell her alone. I don’t know how she will take it.”

“All right,” Rhianna said. She got up and hugged Talon, then sent her out the door.

Without a translator, Siyaddah could not speak to them, but she did her best to be a good hostess. She showed them the water closet, an affair much nicer than any that Rhianna had ever seen. In it, a waterway was cut in stone and then covered, so that any waste would just wash away.

After showing them this room, Siyaddah waved at them, urging them to find a cushion to sleep on.