The Wyrmling Horde (20 page)

Wyrmlings are such needy creatures. Food, water, air—the Great Wyrm has provided for all of our needs. She even offers us immortality, so long as we obey her every demand. Blessed be the name of the Great Wyrm.

 

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

Talon walked into the Bright Ones' sanctuary down a long winding tunnel, where the curved walls were as smooth as eggshell, a soft cream in color. The floor was formed from slabs of stone, with strange and beautiful knots and whorls chiseled into them. At the landing, the entryway fanned out into a great hall. It was unlike anything that Talon had ever imagined.

The room was large enough to hold ten thousand refugees and more. The walls off to her right seemed to be natural stone, as pale as cloud, and several waterfalls cascaded down over some rocks into a broad pool, raising a gentle mist. Lights like stars blazed above. They hung motionless in the air, only a dozen yards overhead, bright enough that they held the room in an enchanted twilight, as if just before the crack of dawn. Up near the top of the waterfalls, the stars gave just enough light that they nurtured some strange creepers that
hung like tapestries from the rock, the pale leaves dotted with brilliant red flowers. White cave crickets sang in the wan light, creating a gentle music that merged with the tumble and tinkle of falling water.

Hallways and corridors yawned ahead, and many in the company forged deeper into the cavern, into antechambers where they might find some privacy and collapse for the night.

Few of the Bright Ones seemed to be here in camp. Talon saw no more than two dozen of their men and women in the cavern. Several of them moved off with Daylan Hammer into a small vestibule to hold their council.

She saw bright flashing lights a few moments later, and she went near the vestibule on the pretext of calming one of Alun's mastiffs that was trotting around, woofing in excitement.

Talon halted beside the stream, called to the dog, and scratched at its neck, beneath its fearsome collar. A white cricket fell from the roof and landed in the water. The stream boiled as a fish lunged up to take it.

Talon glanced into the side tunnel.

The Bright Ones stood with Daylan Hammer in a circle, each of them gazing down at a round stone table as if deep in thought. Above them, creatures circled, like birds made not of flesh but of light, each about the length of a man, with ethereal wings that did not move. They were the source of the flashing lights that had drawn Talon.

Glories, Talon realized. According to legend, the Glories were the spirits of just men who had forsaken their own flesh—much like the Death Lords, Talon mused, though she suspected that she had it backward. Legend said that the Glories had existed long ago, back in the dim recesses of time, but the Death Lords had to be more recent, for legend said that they had been created by Despair.

The Glories seemed to exude life and light, but the Death Lords of Rugassa had no life or light in them; they survived only by draining life from others.

The Death Lords are but a vile mockery of the Glories, Talon realized.

As Talon's eyes adjusted to the light, she studied the room. The vestibule was circular in shape, with a table made from a single piece of jasper. Fine chairs carved from cherrywood lined the outer wall. Tapestries of red embroidered with threads of gold carpeted the floor.

Erringale was speaking in the council chamber, but his liquid voice mingled with the sounds of running water, the chatter of people, and the chirp of cave crickets. Talon could not make out what he said, and even when she could make out the liquid tones of his voice, she could not understand him. It was as if she could understand his words only when he willed her to.

In the great hall, people fanned out. Some went to the lake and began to drink. Others unpacked bedrolls to sleep on, for they had not slept in nearly two days. Some just threw themselves to the ground in exhaustion.

Alun came to retrieve his mastiff, and as he stood beside Talon patting its muzzle, he too peered into the council chamber.

Alun was an ill-formed man, with big ears, a crooked nose, and spindly arms.

A voice spoke at Talon's back. “So, what you thinking?” It was Drewish, one of the sons of the dead Warlord Madoc. Drewish and his brother Connor stood leering over Alun.

“Thinking?” Alun asked. “Nothing.” Somehow, it seemed that he did not want to be accused of thinking. Talon imagined that he didn't want to have to reveal his thoughts to the likes of Drewish.

The Madocs seemed not to even notice Talon. She was, after all, only a young woman, and so, like Alun, was beneath them.

“A smart man would be thinking about how to better his lot in life,” Drewish said. “A smart man would be thinking about how to get himself some forcibles. That's the way of the future. All of our breeding, it won't count for a turd—not when a man like you could take the strength of five men, the wisdom of ten, and the speed of three.”

“What are you talking about?” Alun asked.

Talon knew that Alun had heard about this new rune lore, of course, but apparently he hadn't entertained the notion that he might actually be granted endowments.

“Forcibles, you know,” Drewish said. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a long purse, and let it sway like a bell. Talon could hear forcibles clanging together, like dry pieces of wood.

“Where did you get those?” Alun asked. He reached up to grab the bag.

But Drewish pulled them just out of his grasp. “The blood metal is everywhere. No big trick to having someone make a few forcibles for you, if you know who to talk to. The big trick now will be finding someone who is willing to give you an endowment. Take your pick—wit, stamina, grace? Who will give you theirs? What coin can you offer to get it?”

“I don't know,” Alun said, mystified.

Certainly, Talon thought, no one would give
Alun
an endowment.

He must have thought the same. “What are you offering?” Alun asked. “Do you want my endowment?”

“Not yours,” Drewish laughed. “Your dogs'. A dog can give up an endowment as easily as a man. You want strength? Those mastiffs of yours have it. You want stamina, speed? There's a dog for that. Scent and hearing too. But we need the dogs to give up those endowments. We need their master to coax the gifts from them. That's where you come in. The dogs love you. You're their feeder, their handler. They're completely devoted to you, not to us.”

Drewish took out a pair of forcibles. “One forcible for every six dogs,” Connor said, “that's what I'm offering. You'll be a Runelord if you take me up on it.”

Alun considered.

Talon knew that it was tempting. Alun had fourteen dogs. If he sold Connor and Drewish a dozen endowments, he'd have a pair of forcibles and could take two endowments himself.

He'd be a Runelord. Perhaps with some strength and
stamina, he could become more of a warrior, raise his own lot in life.

But Connor and Drewish would both still be far more powerful than he. Right now, they loomed over him, subtly threatening.

And where would Alun go to get endowments from humans once his dogs had all been used up? No one would give them to someone like him.

It wasn't much of an offer, Talon decided.

Petty bribes and threats, that's how the Madocs led.

She wondered if she might buy the endowments from Alun herself, but she had little coin to offer. There were a few treasures in her dowry box, but she'd been forced to leave that back in Cantular. Doubtlessly, her pair of fine gold rings would end up decorating some wyrmling lord's nostrils.

From the council chamber, she heard Daylan cry out in anguish, “There is no law against compassion. It is true that I broke your laws, but I did it only to obey a higher law. How can we serve society if we do not serve the individual first?”

There was a brief moment of silence, and Daylan cried out again. “If you would resist evil, you cannot just stand idly by and watch its dominion spread. You must thwart Despair's every design!”

Both Connor and Drewish turned to glance into the council chamber.

Talon realized that Daylan was in the other room searching for a way to save the world, while she, Connor, and Drewish were plotting how to overthrow it.

I don't want to be like them, she told herself.

And suddenly she knew that she could not let the likes of Connor and Drewish get control of those dogs—or take endowments from any other man or woman.

He is a fool who empowers his enemies, Talon thought. It was something that her father used to say.

Connor and Drewish were rotten to the core. Their father, despite all of his talk of serving the people, had been no better
than his sons, and in the end, when Talon had watched him fall to his death from the parapet at Caer Luciare, she had felt no more loss than if she had ground a cockroach under her heel.

“How can we do this?” Alun asked the Madocs. “How can we grant you these endowments? People will see what we're up to. Some will object.”

“We will do it with their permission,” Connor said. “The jewelers and smiths are already at work making the forcibles, putting the runes in them. Daylan Hammer and the emir plan to lead a team to Rugassa to free Areth Sul Urstone and that runt of a wizard Fallion. I want to go with them. I want to be among the heroes that helps free them.” He hesitated for a moment, as if Alun might object, but Alun held his tongue. “So when the time comes, I want you to offer your dogs as Dedicates, and suggest that we be granted those endowments. It will sound better coming from you.”

Talon wondered. She could think of no good reason why the Madocs would make such a grandiose gesture as to join the rescue.

Connor was rumored to be an outstanding swordsman, but in raids against the wyrmlings, neither he nor Drewish bloodied their weapons. They consistently failed to prove themselves in battle.

They preferred to stand back from the front and observe the engagements, as if they were superb strategists who were studying wyrmling tactics so that they might use their knowledge to great advantage to win some future war.

Meanwhile, Talon thought, Alun has risked his neck and cut down the wyrmlings in a haze of rage.

Even that runt Alun is better than them, Talon thought. They might have the breeding for war, but they don't have the heart for battle.

No, she did not trust the Madoc clan.

Talon began to suspect the Madocs of darker motives. Neither of the Madocs would want to see Prince Areth Sul Urstone take the throne.

It would be far better for them if he died, along with Fallion, the emir, and anyone else who took that journey.

Talon suspected that she understood precisely why Connor and Drewish hoped to join the rescue party.

But Alun could not deny them, not without incurring their wrath—and risking retribution.

“I'll do it,” Alun said. Connor reached out a hand to shake. Alun shook at the wrist, as was the custom with warriors. Moments later, the Madocs stalked away.

“You can't help them,” Talon whispered when they were out of earshot. “Those men are up to no good. You can't empower your enemies.”

“What else can I do?” Alun asked.

“Offer the dogs to the emir,” Talon said.

“What? And wind up with my throat cut in my sleep? No thank you.”

“I'll protect you,” Talon said. She meant it.

“What, a girl—protect me? I'd rather you let me die.”

Talon suddenly realized that he had never seen her fight. In fact, on his world, he'd never seen a woman warrior.

It was hours later when the council finally broke up.

Erringale led the way from the darkened council chamber, with the emir, Daylan Hammer, the Wizard Sisel, and the rest of the Bright Ones behind. The Glories had departed.

Talon could see from the smile upon Daylan's face that the council had gone well. Inside the great hall, Erringale climbed a short landing beside the river, and began to speak in his strange tongue, the words filling Talon's mind.

“The White Council has spoken,” Erringale said. “The Bright Ones and Glories of our world have all been consulted, and a consensus has been reached.”

Talon wondered at those words. Certainly these few Bright Ones in the sanctuary couldn't be “all” of the Bright Ones in the world.

So Talon could only imagine that Erringale had spoken to their minds, as he spoke to Talon now.

“The people of Luciare are free to remain here for three days, to rest yourselves, recover from your injuries, and refresh your spirits. But at the end of those three days, you must return to your world.”

At that, the people around Talon gave a cheer. Erringale raised his hands for silence and in a few moments, the people quieted. “Daylan Hammer has petitioned our help. He hopes to free your prince, Areth Sul Urstone, from the wyrmling horde, along with our Torch-bearer.

“We also wish to see them freed.

“But our people cannot lightly interfere in the affairs of the shadow worlds. Therefore, we offer aid in the form of council: we urge you to do harm to no man, be he human or wyrmling. To do violence to another is to injure your own soul.

“Still, we recognize that it is not always possible to remain free from another's blood.”

New thoughts struck Talon as Erringale spoke, strange notions that she had never considered. It was as if a great argument had been raging for eons among the Bright Ones, and now a thousand thoughts came swirling into her head.

The war between the Bright Ones and Despair was an endless one, and was not a war between creatures of flesh. Rather, Talon recognized that the life of the spirit was more important to Erringale and his people than the life of the flesh. And certain acts did not just
injure
the spirit, they could wound it to death.

A man who steals from another,
Erringale warned,
a man who does injury to the truth, or who does violence to another, wounds his own soul in the process, and weakens his spirit. We warn you against such things. It is only as you remain true to your conscience that your spirit can grow and mature.