Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (2 page)

WHAT DO YOU WANT OF ME?

Each syllable thrilled through Virulan’s entire being, bringing such ecstasy that he nearly forgot his purpose. To speak words in answer would be to profane this holy emptiness. Virulan opened his thoughts to
He Who Is
, knowing He saw all.

THIS IS NOT A TASK BEYOND YOUR SKILL. I HAVE GIVEN YOU TOOLS.

Before Virulan could shape a question, he had been thrust back into the world of time and form. But he was not in his bedchamber. He was in a place in the World Without Sun whose existence he had never suspected.

The Black Chamber.

It lay at the center of a vein of black glass a thousand miles thick. Virulan could feel the vastness of stone above him, and his heart swelled with pride: the Brightworlders boasted of their vast lands, but the World Without Sun was a thousand times greater.

To any senses but his own, the chamber would have been unremittingly black. Virulan saw a thousand shades of darkness, hues that no other race had words for. The darkness showed him a chamber carved of the living rock. Every inch of the walls and ceiling was covered with deeply incised symbols.

Master their meaning and Virulan would take within himself the faintest echo of the power of
He Who Is
. Virulan’s birthright was to command sorcery—and here was the grimoire from which he must learn

But that knowledge came at a price.

In the center of the chamber there was a long hollow spike of obsidian that stood heart-high. This was the Obsidian Blade, the instrument of sacrifice that made its victim one with the symbols upon the walls. For any other, what Virulan now contemplated would be nothing more than a gateway to the most agonizing death of all—but Virulan was first among the Endarkened, first shaped by the hand of
He Who Is
. He spread his great scarlet wings and thrust himself into the air. For an instant, his golden horns brushed the vaulting ceiling of the chamber.

Then he fell.

The Obsidian Blade pierced his body.

The chamber rang like a crystal bell with his agonized screams; the glyphs upon the walls bloomed into dark fire, searing their meaning into his skin. He hung there, writhing, impaled, until his screams dwindled to sobs of agony, until his consciousness fled into a nothingness deeper than anything he had ever known.

But when he rose up an eternity later, the sorcery that was his birthright thrilled through his veins with every beat of his heart. Virulan went from the Black Chamber to the foot of the Tree of Night and summoned his Endarkened to him. There he opened their heritage to them, a sorcery fueled by death, a sorcery great enough to give them the victory they craved.

And once again, the Endarkened swept forth from Obsidian Mountain.

The slaughter they wreaked now was a thousandfold greater than before. They glutted themselves upon blood and pain and gorged upon the flesh of their victims. The land around Obsidian Mountain became a wasteland where nothing lived, and each night they ranged farther.

And it was still not enough.

*   *   *

“What must I do?” Virulan cried. His scream echoed back from the stony vault that was the roof of the world and brought no answer.

Save one.

“You must use the tools
He Who Is
has given us, my king.”

Uralesse was first among the Twelve, as Virulan was first among them all. Only he would dare to approach Virulan when Virulan walked in the Garden of Night. When he saw his king’s gaze upon him, Uralesse groveled low to the ground, his great ribbed wings wound tightly about his body in submission, his horned brow pressed against the stone.

“Do you say I do not?” Virulan growled. His fangs ached to rend Uralesse’s flesh, even though the words he had spoken were words Virulan had long held in his own mind. He had taught his knowledge of sorcery to his people—but only a fool would give up every advantage, and so Virulan had not taught them all he had learned.

“I say only that the first among us is surely greater than any of us,” Uralesse said, unmoving.

“You are wise, my brother. Rise, and walk with me.”

Uralesse rose gracefully to his feet and allowed his wings to open fractionally. For a time they walked together in silence.

“The Bright World continues to live,” Virulan said at last.

“Yes,” Uralesse agreed, his wings drooping in sorrow. “Each pure thing we make becomes tainted once more. It is as if life replenishes itself as water inexhaustibly fills a spring.”

“I shall learn the Bright World’s secret,” Virulan said. “And I will make of it talons for their throats.”

“Let it be so, my king,” Uralesse said.

*   *   *

Now Virulan worked the greatest sorcery he had ever imagined. He returned to the Black Chamber and there he studied the runes and the glyphs until he was certain his spell would succeed. Then he sent his Endarkened into the Bright World once more, but this time not to slay. This time, he ordered them to bring its creatures to him alive.

It was a reaping that would long endure in the stories the Brightworlders told one another. The chambers of the World Without Sun became filled with life: weeping and lamenting, profaning the beauty of the Endarkened realm by its very existence. Night after night, the Endarkened flew, and harvested, until the World Without Sun could hold no more.

In a space above the Black Chamber, Virulan had made a place. Its only entrance was through an opening in its ceiling, and it contained only one object: a gigantic mirror of black obsidian. As his subjects had hunted, so had Virulan prepared the mirror. And when it was ready, he ordered all the captives slaughtered at once.

The Endarkened had learned to love the pain of their victims, learned to cherish each scream and tear. Torture was their highest art, but today, Virulan did not call for art, but for blood. And he received it. The halls of the World Without Sun were awash in blood, a red and stinking tide that flowed through halls and down staircases, rushing ever deeper into the Deep Earth until it came to the place where the Obsidian Mirror waited. Hot fresh blood poured through the opening in the ceiling and filled the room to the brink.

And the Mirror drank in the life, the power, the blood, until all the blood was gone, and only the Mirror itself remained.

Then Virulan and his brothers feasted. And when the feast was done, Virulan went to stand before the Mirror.

“Show me what I wish to see,” he commanded, and the Mirror did. It showed him the Bright World as the Brightworlders saw it. It showed him their lives and their fates. For a very long time, Virulan watched, and learned. He left the Mirror only to seek the silence and stillness that preserved his existence; at each Rising he returned to the visions of the Mirror once more. A thousand Risings came and went before he had learned what he must know.

And then he left the Obsidian Mirror, and went to the Heart of Darkness, and seated himself upon the Shadow Throne, and summoned Uralesse.

“I have learned what I wished to know,” he said without preamble when Uralesse groveled before him. “And I would hear your counsel.”

“Tell me how I may serve you, my king,” Uralesse answered.

“The Brightworlders cannot be slain,” Virulan said flatly.

Uralesse raised his head in shock, his pupilless yellow eyes going wide. “
He Who Is
has said it must be,” he protested.

“And so I have summoned you, for you will hear the Brightworlders’ secret and understand.
He Who Is
made us to destroy all the Light has made. He has not set us to destroy the Light itself, for that is a task He reserves for His own, once ours is done. But ours will never be done, my brother.
He Who Is
has given us great sorcery—but the Light has given life the ability to multiply itself, increasing faster than thought. Once you spoke of an ever-filling spring and I thought it merely clever poetry. But it is not. And we are few!”

His last words were a howl of anguish.

“Then we must be more than we are,” Uralesse said strongly. He dared to sit back on his heels at the foot of the Shadow Throne, but did not rise. “You who are the wellspring of all sorcery, who have dared to gaze upon the naked ugliness of our foe—you know their secret! We will take it and use it against them!”

For a long time, Virulan gazed at his counselor in silence. “Let it be so,” he said at last. “Summon our brothers.”

*   *   *

When all the Endarkened were gathered together, it was a communion of such beauty that Virulan nearly wept to behold it. Rugashag—Shurzul—Khambaug—Bashahk—Dhasgah—Gholak—Lashagan—Marbuglor—Arzhugdu—Nagreloth—Orbushnu—Uralesse—each was more glorious than the next. And each one of them was dedicated to only two things.

The destruction of all life.

And becoming the supreme power in the World Without Sun.

Virulan did not condemn such ambition: he shared it. Soft emotions of trust, love, and loyalty were suitable only to soft things, like the Brightworlders. But that hardly meant he intended to give up his supremacy—or have it taken from him. He had made his preparations for this moment carefully and in secret, weaving a skein of spells as delicate as the ones to create the Obsidian Mirror had been forceful. He was the last to enter the Heart of Darkness, and when he did, his brethren knelt to him in a great rustle of wings. Virulan seated himself upon the Shadow Throne and gazed upon them for a long time in silence before he spoke.

This is the last time I shall look upon you in the way you were made.
The thought did not bring regret, but excitement. It was the first step upon the road that would end in the triumph of the Endarkened.

“
He Who Is
has given me many good things, and I have shared them all with you,” King Virulan said. “He has asked only one thing of us in exchange for all the pleasures He has allowed us. And now, at last, I shall make it possible for us to serve Him fully.”

He did not wait for the questioning rustle of wings to subside, but struck at once. Spellfire leaped from the walls, the ceiling, the very floor of the chamber, wrapping the bodies before him in a scarlet cocoon. His brethren—his comrades—fought magnificently, but they were powerless against a sorcery that fed upon the very magic in their bones. And when the sorcery had run its course, his brethren were changed.

All but one.

“I would not have you lack a true companion, my king,” Uralesse said, entering the chamber again. “And so, I took care to place myself outside the compass of your spell—though only in anticipation of your own foresight.” He bowed deeply. “If you were to be lost, my king, who would father the great race of Endarkened you will send into battle? And so, for the sake of peace in our realm, I thought the matter best settled at once.”

All about him, his once-brothers ran their hands over transformed flesh: deep bosoms and graceful hips, new beauty cloaking the ancient power of their birthright. Female, as the Brightworlders were female. From their bodies he would call a horde, a legion, a race of Endarkened. Thousand upon thousand, enough to darken the sky with their wings.

Enough to destroy all who walked beneath the sun and the moon.

It had been no part of Virulan’s plan to spare any of them the transformation. Just as he was first among the Endarkened, greatest in power, so it was only right that his seed should sow the death of all life.

Uralesse had tricked him, first anticipating his intention, then escaping his spell. It indicated a cleverness that Virulan did not trust … but which might prove useful in the war to come.

And if it did not, there were other spells, and sealed chambers within the Deep Earth.

“Foolish Uralesse,” Virulan said grandly. “You have exerted yourself for no reason. My spell was never intended to fall upon you. It is as you said: my intention was always to spare you, for the very reasons you suggest.”

Uralesse bowed low, but his golden eyes held a mocking light. “And now, my king? What shall we—your loyal and most submissive subjects—do now?”

Uralesse rose to his feet and spread his wings. Still on …
her
 … knees before his throne, Rugashag gazed up at him, her savage beauty a display of fury and confusion. He stretched out one taloned hand and raised her to her feet.

“We shall wait, Uralesse my brother,” King Virulan said. “We shall wait.”

CHAPTER ONE

THE FALL OF FARCARINON

Even as we reckon time, our history is long—so long its beginnings have been worn away by the passage of time. Long before Man came to be, we were. It could be said that our history begins with the Endarkened, for that terrible conflict scoured away all that we had been before it, leaving us one purpose:

Survival.

—Peldalathiriel Caerthalien,
Of the Reign of Great Queen Vieliessar

Perchelion used to tell me the Hunt rode through every storm. When I grew old enough to question I said I did not believe her. I remember how she slapped me, and said I would never become a knight of my father’s meisne, for to doubt the Starry Hunt meant I would never wield a sword. I remember I laughed, and said there were not enough storms in all the year for them to do that …

Ladyholder Nataranweiya forced her mind to focus on such ancient trifles, for to allow it liberty would mean she thought of things it would not be good to think on now. Her child-swollen body shuddered harder than the cold should merit, even as the horse’s body shook with weariness.

Lightning stitched the woods to sudden brightness, and in its light she could see Falthiel, his face turned toward her, shouting something. She could not make out the words over the howl of the wind and the thunder of the horses’ hooves. Dioniron had given their mounts enough of the battle cordial to poison them: they would run until they died.

They would have to. Caerthalien’s dogs were a candlemark—no more—behind them now, and Nataranweiya knew they outnumbered the scant handful of her surviving protectors.

Suddenly her mount put a foot wrong, slipping and staggering through mud and autumn leaves for a handful of terrifying moments before finding its balance and running on. The near-fall jarred her agonizingly, but Nataranweiya did not cry out. She would not shame her Bondmate, even though all her broken soul yearned for was to follow him into the death he had found. Serenthon Farcarinon would have made her queen over all the Hundred Houses. If only Serenthon had never known of Amrethion’s Curse. If only he had not taken it into his heart, as if it were a lover’s message meant for him alone.