Worldbinder (43 page)

It was not easy. In fact, it was hard, like running a race.

And it was pure ecstasy.

Fallion fluttered about the tower, and found that he had a better knack for it than the king did.

Perhaps it’s the weight, Fallion thought. The wings were all roughly the same size, but the king, with his Warrior Clan blood, outweighed Fallion by at least a hundred pounds, probably closer to a hundred and fifty.

In moments, Jaz came winging up beside him, and shouted, “Let’s go over that hill!”

He pointed to a hill at least four miles away, a dark hump rising out of the night, stately evergreens at its peak, all weathered and blasted by lightning over the years.

And so they raced, laughing, as they had done when they were children, their wings beating rhythmically. Fallion thrilled to the wind coursing beneath his wings, and fought back tears. In a choked voice he said, “When last I rode a graak, I thought I would never fly again.”

“I think,” Jaz shouted, “we could give those graaks a good race, now.”

And it was true.

They reached the hill in less than four minutes, but the quick flight left Fallion with sweat streaming down his cheek, sweat that would quickly dry in the cool night air. They circled the trees, looked out above the valley in the distance—and saw the wyrmling horde.

It was miles away. A few stars still shone over the valley, and by their pale light Fallion could see wyrmlings in the distance, starlight glinting on their bone helms. They looked like cockroaches thick upon a floor, for they covered the land.

There were larger things among them, a trio of moving hills and enormous lizard-like kezziards, while giant graaks winged sluggishly above, casting vast shadows. And fluttering around them were tinier figures, like midges, the Knights Eternal.

“Come on,” Fallion said in rising concern. He glanced back toward their mountain fortress, its peak gleaming white in the distance. “Let’s go.”

    39    

The night filled with snarls and roars as new troops joined the wyrmling horde camped on the plains below Luciare.

Soldiers had been gathering from the east and the north. The great giant graaks had come just after midnight, with the Knights Eternal in their wake. And there was word that a wyrmling host had slaughtered a human army at Cantular. Each new addition had been a cause for celebration, until now.

The troops that joined the camp now wore black robes with the symbol of the great wyrm emblazoned in red—a circle with a world wyrm rising from it. But they also wore black helms and had their cape pins adorned with the skulls of wolves, covered in silver foil. These were the emperor’s elite troops, the fang guard.

Their skin had gone gray, and their faces had the emaciated look of those who are more dead than alive.

They growled and shoved as they made their way through the throng, clubbing or kicking lesser warriors who were too slow to move out of the way. Their eyes had gone red with rage, and the air felt stifling with menace.

The Death Lord watched as the fang guard leader approached, his face distorted by wrath. He glared up at
the Death Lord, who had been standing upon a pinnacle of rock, peering out over his wondrous army.

“Fourteen fang guards reporting for duty,” the captain said.

The Death Lord did not like the looks of him.

“Grovel,” the Death Lord commanded. It was only right that such creatures debase themselves before him.

The captain lowered his neck slowly, as if it were made of steel and he could bend it only with great difficulty. His eyes blazed.

There is something wrong with these troops, the Death Lord realized. The whole world seemed to have turned upside down. There were forests where there should be none. Some of his troops had vanished during the great change, and others now claimed to recall other lives lived upon another world. Two of the men had even shown marvelous powers, gained from wondrous runes.

What had become of the fang guard? Obviously, he thought, the emperor has placed some spell upon them, to make them more feral. Perhaps it was an experiment, with some new type of harvester spike. Still, he thought, I cannot allow them to show insubordination.

The Death Lord leapt thirty feet to the ground so that he could stand before the captain, his black robes fluttering as he landed.

He reached out to the captain, his hand but a shadow that escaped from his robe, and raked the captain lightly between the eyes with a single fingernail.

The captain’s gray skin flayed wide, and blood oozed from the wound.

The captain struggled to retain control, but his wrath would not let him. He trembled and shook from head to foot, as if straining to keep from lashing out.

He should have showed no emotion at all.

What a waste, the Death Lord thought, realizing that he would have to kill the soldier. Then the Death Lord uttered a small curse.

With a sound of shredding, the captain’s flesh began to rip from his body. Skin peeled away like parchment. His robes and armor were rent as if by some great beast.

There in the pale light, the Death Lord suddenly glimpsed runes upon the creature’s pale skin—runes of strength, speed, stamina, and bloodlust.

Ah, the Death Lord realized, our master is experimenting with some new magic. He must have sent these reinforcements only hours ago!

That seemed almost impossible. They would have had to run hundreds of leagues in a single night. But the Death Lord could not deny the evidence.

And I, he thought, have killed one of her special tools. I will have to hide the deed, for it is too late to stop.

Again and again the tearing came. The captain roared and fell to his knees, naked, while skin continued to flay, exposing fat and muscle. In a moment he pitched forward and lay silently twitching as the peeling continued.

The Death Lord peered upward. A layer of clouds sealed the heavens, blocking even the starlight. Upon the mount, just four miles away, Luciare shone with intense brightness, lit by lesser spirits.

The Death Lord had far more than he needed in the way of armaments, men, and spells to take the castle. There would never be a better time for a bloodbath.

    40    

Horns blared throughout Luciare, clear horns as piercing as the cold of a mid-winter’s night, horns that told a tale of wyrmlings toiling up the slopes of the mountain.

Alun raced down the hallways to the lower levels. As he did, he heard shouts. “Warlord Madoc has returned! He stopped the wyrmlings at Cantular!”

Alun could hardly believe the good news.

The city was shut. Huge slabs of rock had been brought to seal every portico, every window. Through the hard work of thousands, the city’s defenses had been repaired in only a day. From outside, the stones fit so cleanly that it would be hard even to tell where the openings had been.

Inside the castle, light and life were everywhere. Children had been put to work lighting extra thumb-lanterns and placing them in the lower corridors where the wyrmlings would first enter. The stark white walls reflected the light, making the halls almost as light as day.

Flowers were strewn upon the floor, fresh leaves of rose and lavender and pennyroyal, so that a sweet scent filled the city. With each step, Alun perfumed the halls,
and seeds were strewn beside the flowers—poppy and bean, wheat and rye.

It made the footing all that more treacherous.

Alun gained the lowest levels and had to fight his way past warriors in order to reach the portal.

Outside Warlord Madoc and his sons could be seen marching up the city streets now, capes flapping behind them, faces grim, only moments ahead of the wyrmling hordes. Crowds of warriors cheered them as triumphant heroes. Alun could see the wyrmlings racing up the mountain road, just moments behind, but Madoc was safely within the city walls.

Last of all among the returning heroes, came the Emir of Dalharristan, head lowered in humility. There were so few troops returning, Alun saw, that this could not really be celebrated as a victory.

“Ten thousand wyrmlings they slew!” someone shouted. “They died on the bridge of Cantular.”

Madoc trudged up to the main gate and made to pass Alun. “Milord,” Alun begged, “if I may have a moment?”

Madoc glared. “Is it important?”

“I have news that you should hear,” Alun suggested, “before you see the king.”

Madoc considered a moment, as if nothing that Alun could say would be more urgent than his own report to the king. Then he grabbed Alun by the sleeve and ushered him from the hall into the first living chamber that they reached. It had been a stately room for some merchant who did not want to travel far to get into the city. It was spacious and elegantly appointed. Now it was empty, the valuables hastily removed, the merchant having fled to higher—and presumably safer—quarters.

“What is so important?” Madoc demanded as he closed the door.

“High King Urstone tried to exchange Princess Kan-hazur for his son, and the wyrmlings cheated him. They took the princess, and gave nothing in return.”

“The king was a fool,” Madoc said. “Still, we can take
comfort in one thing—the princess will not live out the week.”

“What do you mean?”

Madoc smiled. “My men have been poisoning her food with shavings of red-wort root for years. It will not harm her until she stops eating it.”