The Wyrmling Horde (11 page)

When lions feast, the timid get what they deserve—nothing.

 

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

In the wyrmling keep at Rugassa, Areth Sul Urstone was a stranger in his own body. He walked and talked, but it was another's will that moved him, and it was another person's words that were spoken, another's emotions that he felt.
The Great Wyrm, Lord Despair, had taken control. Areth Sul Urstone felt like a mouse, trapped and cornered in some king's great hall, watching as the ponderous affairs of state rolled by.

 

Lord Despair stood in the uppermost bell tower while the stars drifted on a warm wind above. The day had passed, and it was nearly midnight.

Gazing up at the stars, Despair saw not piercing lights that smote his heart with their beauty—but only the scattered bits of his longed-for empire.

Despair reached up as if to gather the stars in his hand. For so long they had remained outside his grasp. But now, now he could almost touch them.

Areth watched the gesture, felt Despair's longing, but Areth could not quite comprehend Despair's turbulent thoughts, his undying hatred, his far-flung plans.

Now Despair peered down at his minions toiling in his fortress, hundreds of yards below, admiring their greatness.

Enormous rookeries had been built high upon the sides of the volcano to house his otherworldly graaks. Wranglers were trying to get one of the enormous creatures into its new home, but it spread its massive black wings and reared back, pulling one of its handlers to its death.

Already doors to half a dozen shadow worlds had been opened, and soon reinforcements would arrive from all over, creatures that the wyrmlings had never dreamed of.

First I must consolidate my hold upon this world, Despair knew, and then I can take the others.

Yet he did not exult in his power.

All day Despair had felt uneasy, experiencing a strange and growing sense of alarm.

Danger is coming to the fortress, the Earth warned. Yet the warning did not come in coherent words. Rather it was an emotion, an instinct that nudged him to action and niggled his mind. Danger is coming. Send your people to safety.

Lord Despair had used Areth's awakening Earth Powers
to “choose” certain wyrmling lords, creating a bond with them, allowing him to sense when they were in danger and warn them. Not only did Despair sense danger to some of his lords now, he knew what they had to do.

“Flee,” the Earth whispered. “Tell them to flee.”

But Areth Sul Urstone, overwhelmed by another's will, could do nothing. He could not warn the doomed lords, for Despair now dominated him completely, and Despair refused to send the lords to safety.

I will act when the time is ripe, Despair whispered his own reassurance to the Earth. None that I have chosen shall be lost.

Lord Despair had devised a different way to save his people. He had won the battle for Caer Luciare. Already, Despair's servants were digging blood metal from a hill near the fortress, and by dawn the first shipment would be rushing to Rugassa. Once it arrived, he would grant massive endowments to his men, and prepare a trap for those who attacked.

I will so arm my people that they will be undefeatable, Despair told himself.

But he could not be certain of that. Despair could not sense the source of the danger. He imagined that Runelords were coming, most likely some powerful lords that had been routed from Caer Luciare. Such men would pose a great danger. They would come in a few hours perhaps, or a day. He could not be sure when they would arrive. He only sensed the danger the way that one can feel the coming of a storm even when no clouds darken the horizon.

Lord Despair spun, and orders leapt from his mouth: “Send word to the emperor,” he told the captain of the guard. “I want a giant graak dispatched to Caer Luciare to retrieve our first shipment of blood metal ore. I want that ore at first dusk tomorrow.”

“Yes, O Great Wyrm,” the guard said.

Despair considered next how he would get his Dedicates. It did not make sense to take endowments from wyrmlings. He would need them to fight his war.

No, he thought, I must garner endowments from my would-be enemies.

Almost as an afterthought he said, “There shall be no more harvesting of the small folk for a time. The horde has enough meat for now.”

The captain seemed surprised. “You'll spare them, show them mercy? Don't they present a danger?”

“Letting them live is not the same as showing mercy,” Despair explained patiently. “I'll want prisoners, lithe women to give endowments of grace, cunning men to lend me their wit. I'll need folk with strong vision and hearing. But most of all, I'll want those with great beauty and those with fine voices.”

“My lord?” the captain asked, for he was as yet untrained in the art of stripping endowments from his enemies.

“There are tens of millions of small folk scattered across the earth,” Despair explained. “They outnumber us, and so, as you say, they present a danger.

“But I will force them to love me. I will command their devotion.”

The captain of the guard nodded. He'd do Despair's bidding, but there was still no understanding in his eyes.

That did not matter. In time, the dull creature would comprehend what Despair was plotting. The captain turned away, to carry the message.

“Ah, one last thing,” Despair said. “Tell them to set apart the strongest of the small folk alive, along with the smiths and jewelers. We can use them to work the mines by daylight and make our forcibles. Thus our slaves shall forge their own collars.”

“Yes, Great One,” the captain said, and he rushed from the parapet.

Despair stood beneath stars a moment longer, wishing for them, his heart still heavy with alarm. He could not tell when the attack would take place. Tomorrow, the day after?

It had been almost a full day since the Knight Eternal Vulgnash had brought Fallion Orden to the keep. The young wizard should have had time to heal.

Despair told his guards, “Take me to the dungeons, to the Black Cell.”

And they began the journey down the winding stairs and into the labyrinth.

The
labyrinth
had not gotten its name by chance. Most of the wyrmlings in Rugassa had only a cursory knowledge of their surroundings. They had sleeping quarters, a place to work, and perhaps a nearby arena or alehouse to furnish some diversions. That is all that a person really needs in life, Lord Despair believed. The wyrmlings were functional, productive. They did not need to know what existed beyond their cramped lives.

So few of them knew what existed upon the surface. They were told horror stories of a bright sun that would burn out their eyes, or of fierce creatures that could swallow wyrmlings whole. Of all these enemies, mankind was always held to be the greatest threat.

Thus, the wyrmling lords were not seen as slave masters, but as saviors.

Now with the great change there was unrest in the warrens. Some wyrmlings had bound with their shadow selves from Fallion's world. They knew not to trust the wyrmling catechisms, and many of them were trying to escape.

But how could they leave the labyrinth if they could not find a door out?

Even now, Despair's servants were spreading misinformation so that the “bound” wyrmlings would fall into traps. Those who were caught—well, the battles in the arenas for the next few weeks promised to be quite entertaining. There is something especially exhilarating in watching a comrade fight for his life.

Yet some of the bound wyrmlings escaped.

After half an hour, Despair reached the Black Cell. Vulgnash sat on the floor next to the young wizard. The room was cold as death.

When Vulgnash heard his master coming, he leapt to attention, fanning his red wings out wide. The jailors hurried to open the door, letting Despair into the cell.

“How is our young friend?” Despair asked.

“Not well,” Vulgnash replied. “His wound became infected. I burned away the pus, and had to use a tong to pull a shard of metal, a broken sword, from his torso. It would be well if our wizard slept, but with the endowments of pain that he has taken, he cries out and writhes in his sleep. There is no escape from his torment.

“So I have taken to keeping him cold, so close to death that he knows nothing. I'm giving him time to heal.”

“Warm him,” Despair said. “Let him feel his torment for a while. Bring him to a stupor.”

“Great Wyrm,” Vulgnash said, bowing a bit and cringing, “he is too close to death.”

“He is young and strong. I have known him through many lifetimes. This one can resist death well. Revive him, just a little.”

Vulgnash stood above Fallion for a moment, with his left hand raised, palm downward, and unleashed a wave of warmth. It hit Lord Despair like a blast of hot wind from the desert.

The heat's effect upon Fallion was instantaneous. The young wizard gasped in pain as he neared consciousness, then lay groaning, huddled in a fetal position.

Despair stepped forward, used the toe of his boot to roll Fallion onto his back.

Lord Despair had lived through millions of lifetimes upon millions of worlds, and deep was his lore. The fleeting folk of this world had no idea who they were dealing with.

He spat upon Fallion's dirty forehead, anointing him with his own inner water. Then he leaned forward and peered into a drop of spittle, using it as a lens, and let his focus go deep, through flesh and bone, into Fallion's mind, and from there into his dreams.

 

Fallion imagined himself to be in his bedroom, far across the sea. The room was small and cluttered, with a pair of cots against each wall. It was dark in the room, blackest night. A chest of drawers leaned against the far wall, covered
in sand-colored rangit furs. A collection of animal skulls adorned the top of the bureau—weasels and burrow bears, a dire wolf and a fossilized toth. These were all lit by the thinnest rays of starlight.

Fallion shouted to his brother Jaz, “You left the window open again! It's freezing.”

Sure enough, as if conjured by Fallion's outburst, bits of snow began to swirl through an open window above the chest of drawers; tiny flakes of ice sifted into the bedroom, blanketing the skulls and furs.

Fallion was suffering various pains in his arms and legs, the pains he had taken upon him in his endowment ceremony. He was in so much pain, he could not understand why. His mind was muddy, his thoughts unclear. He wondered if he had been hurt.

“Jaz, come close the window,” Fallion begged, nearly weeping tears of frustration.

With a mental push, Despair entered the dream.

He darkened the room, so that it was pitch black, even the thin starlight fading into gray.

He chose a form, the form of someone that Fallion loved: a girl, he saw in Fallion's mind—his foster sister Rhianna.

She entered the room shyly, as if coming to a tryst.

“Fallion,” she asked. “Are you awake?” She tiptoed across the room and closed the window.

“Rhianna?” Fallion asked. “What happened? I'm hurt. I'm hurting everywhere.”

“Don't you remember?” Despair asked in Rhianna's soft voice. “You fell. You slipped down a rocky slope and hit your head.” In a pitying tone she asked, “Wake up, sweet one. We have much to do today.”

“Wha—?” Fallion begged. “Wha?”

“The binding of worlds,” Rhianna begged. “Remember? You promised to tell me how it was done. You said that it was so hard. You asked for my help.”

Fallion moaned and tried to look around. But the thin
light and his own pain defeated him. He peered at Rhianna for all of half a second before his eyes rolled up, showing only the whites, and he turned his head away in defeat.

“The binding of worlds,” Rhianna begged. “You promised. You said that you would show me how? So much depends on us!”

“Wha?” Fallion cried out in real life, not in his dreams. He made a gagging sound. His voice was thick from disuse, or perhaps from lack of water.

“Would you like a drink?” Rhianna asked in Fallion's dream. “I have some sweet wine.”

“Please,” Fallion begged.

Rhianna reached out, and in the way of dreams, a purple flask appeared in her hands. She took it to Fallion, sat on the bed beside him, and let him sip. He peered into her eyes longingly, and Despair ratcheted up Rhianna's scent, so that the sweet smell of her hair mingled with the sweet wine, each lending the other potency. She leaned close to Fallion, forcing him to become aware of her curves, her desire.

Lord Despair leaned back, his focus drifting between Fallion's dream and the real world.

He wanted Fallion's thoughts to clear, and needed to free him from some of the pain. He reached out and placed a finger upon each side of Fallion's back, just below the first vertebra, placing pressure in a way that had been learned on many worlds. By pinching the nerve he dulled Fallion's pain.

Nor did he want Fallion to think too clearly, so with his left hand he placed a thumb upon Fallion's carotid artery, just enough to slow the flow of blood to Fallion's brain. The lack of oxygen would soon leave Fallion's head spinning.

In his dream, Rhianna poured her sweet wine down Fallion's throat. Fallion opened his mouth like a robin's chick, hoping for a worm. Rhianna fulfilled the lad's needs.

When the flask was empty, Fallion lay moaning from ghost pains. He had taken endowments of compassion, and
now his Dedicates were in the torture chambers, receiving torments on Fallion's behalf. Some had been put into crystal cages. Others had been dismembered, losing hands or toes or worse.

Despair gloated.

The boy had the nerve to thank me for giving those endowments, Despair thought. I wonder how he enjoyed feeling bits of flesh ripped from his body.

Despair knew that those who suffered such acts of mayhem agonized most of all. It was not the physical pain that tormented them so much as the mental anguish, a sense of being un-whole for the rest of their lives.