The Wyrmling Horde (31 page)

Bumblebees that rose from the stubble seemed to hang in the air, and she could see their wings clacking together where there should have been only a blur. The sun seemed to hang as motionless as a shield upon the wall of some keep, and when a cottontail tried to race from the path ahead,
Talon could easily have reached down and snatched it by the ears.

The road itself was an odd thing, broken up in the great binding. Rough grasses, weeds, and the occasional gorse bush had sprung up during the change. So it was easy to see where travelers had passed recently.

Wyrmling sign was heavy. Several handcarts had left their marks upon the trail.

Talon shivered. She had been down this road before.

All too quickly, the company reached an abandoned inn among some trees, where the folk of Caer Luciare had fought the wyrmlings only days before, when Talon and her friends had been rescued. The roof had been blown off of the building. The cloying scent of blood filled the glen. It had been a fierce struggle, but the forest showed little sign of violence. The squirrels still barked in the trees, and the mother robins still flew to their nests in the bushes. The sunlight was slanting brightly into the little clearing. It was as if already the forest was erasing all evidence of the battle, eager to forget.

But flies lay thick upon the corpses of the few wyrmlings lying there by the inn, warriors whose fingers had gone black and whose bodies had bloated. The human men who had died so bravely here had been laid to rest in nearby graves.

How much easier this battle would have gone, Talon realized, if even a few of my people had taken a handful of endowments.

Talon and the men hurried on for several miles, racing over a long, low hill. They had not gone far when Daylan called for a halt. “It's time to eat,” he said. “Listen to your stomach. A Runelord cannot choose to eat with the rising and the setting of the sun. It takes as much energy to run a dozen miles for a Runelord as it does for a common man. But with your endowments of stamina, it becomes easy to ignore your basic wants, such as hunger.

“Your body needs sustenance, and you will need to eat
often. The battles ahead are hard enough, without battling hunger at the same time.”

Talon stopped, and the company got food from their packs. There was venison with onions and mushrooms cooked into pastries, and some sort of sweet roll with elderberries. The fare was hearty but light. For drink, Talon sampled from her skin. What came out was a remarkable beer, dark in color and hearty in taste. It seemed to renew her and take away small aches of the journey at the same time.

The company wolfed down their fare and soon was off again.

Endowments were being added quickly now, one every few minutes. At times Talon would feel renewed vigor, or her thoughts would feel more cogent or her senses would sharpen as various attributes were passed on through her vectors.

Talon wondered at Daylan's warning about the battle ahead. Right now, she felt so powerful that she could not imagine a skirmish that would be hard. She suspected that she could cut down wyrmlings all day, felling them like cordwood, without breaking a sweat.

But the wyrmlings had begun to take endowments, too.

And among them were fell sorcerers whose powers might dismay even a Runelord.

For thirty miles they ran, following hard on the wyrmling trail. Twice they saw villages in the distance where the small folk had lived. But the roofs had been torn off of houses and the animals were gone, proof that the wyrmlings had already taken their toll.

Still, after a bit, Daylan called another halt, and the company set a quick camp in such a village. They gathered chickens for lunch, raided vegetables from a garden, and made a quick stew in order to supplement their rations.

Talon searched for any sign of survivors, but the wyrmlings had left none. She found evidence of children snatched from their rooms, babes robbed from their cradles. She found
blood-smeared walls, and the bodies of a pair of young lovers whose heads had been taken so that the wyrmling harvesters could remove their glands to make foul elixirs.

Anger seemed to harden in her stomach, and Talon longed for retribution.

Erringale warned me not to strike in anger, she thought. But how can I not hate the wyrmlings who have robbed so many of so much?

The party finished their meal and sprinted forward again, traveling a dozen more miles. They neared a small, heavily forested hill when suddenly Talon caught a familiar scent in the wind.

“Halt!” she cried, and drew her blade. She stood warily at guard, and the Cormar twins drew their own weapons.

“What's wrong?” they asked.

“I smell death,” Talon said. The endowment of scent that she'd taken from Alun's dog was serving her well. “I smell fear, too. A battle happened here not long ago.”

Talon cautiously led the others to the top of the hill, and in the morning sun began to find wyrmling corpses littering the woods. On the far side of the hill was a giant dead graak, still tied to an enormous pine.

“There has been a battle here,” one of the Cormar twins said, stating the obvious. “But who fought, over what, I cannot tell.”

There were no horse tracks. The wyrmlings were large, and some of them weighed as much as five hundred pounds. With such weight, their feet had left deep gouges in the dry forest floor as they skirmished. But their foes seemed to leave little sign. There were no heavy tracks from a warhorse, no tracks from men.

In the depths of the trees they found a cave near the crest of the hill, its opening obscured by brush. A cooking fire had burned there recently. The ashes were still warm.

“The wyrmlings camped here,” Daylan said. “But they were attacked last night. But by whom, I wonder?”

“Perhaps the wyrmlings killed each other,” the emir hazarded.
“The only sign that I see is from wyrmlings. See there?” He pointed to two bodies that had fallen near one another, as if they had slain each other in a duel. “It looks as if this was a robbery of some kind.”

“Wyrmlings often fight one another,” Daylan confirmed. “But usually not on such a scale.”

As they neared the giant graak, Talon caught a familiar scent.

“Rhianna was here,” she said, astonished.

“Are you certain?” the emir asked.

“Yes,” Talon said, rejoicing to know that her foster sister was still alive. “I smell the jasmine perfume that she often wears. It is all through her clothes.”

She studied the scene with new eyes. The wyrmlings lay scattered about in every direction. Rhianna had taken them on the wing. She would not have had to land in order to fight, and even if she did land for a moment, her smaller weight hadn't left much in the way of tracks on the ground.

The wyrmlings had not been dead long. Their stomachs had not grown distended; the blood on them was congealed but not crusted.

“They fought only a few hours ago, it would seem,” Talon said.

Talon detected something else—a coppery scent very much like blood, but subtly different. “There were forcibles here.”

Like a bolt, understanding hit her.

“Yes,” Daylan said. “The wyrmlings were shipping them to Rugassa on their foul graak. Rhianna must have wiped out the guards and stolen their treasure. Good girl, to keep it from Zul-torac's troops!”

“Rhianna must have taken a few endowments of her own,” Tun Cormar suggested. “She was not such a warrior when last we met.”

Talon bit her lip, peered around. “If Rhianna won the wyrmlings' forcibles, where did she take them? She could not have flown far with so much weight.”

The emir suggested, “Ah, but if she had endowments, there is no telling how far she traveled. We could spend all day searching for them in these hills. I suggest that we ask her when she comes.”

He peered up along the horizon, as if searching for Rhianna, and suddenly his face went pale and stricken. “Hide!” he shouted, and he grabbed Talon's sleeve and pulled her back behind the dead flier.

She looked up to the south, saw what he had feared. In the distance several miles away was a cloud, a gray haze hurtling toward them just above the tree line. Within the haze she could see wings flapping, and the crimson robes of Knights Eternal.

The five of them scattered, racing to the giant black graak, crouching beneath an outstretched wing. Blades were drawn, and the five lay quietly.

“Knights Eternal flying in daylight?” the emir whispered.

“From Caer Luciare,” one of the Cormars added.

“Their business must be urgent,” the other said.

Talon's heart was beating. She had not fared well against the creatures when last they had met.

They might have seen us already, she thought. She hoped not. The sunlight was anathema to wyrmlings. It blinded them.

But even if they haven't spotted us, Talon realized, they'll see the dead wyrmlings below them, the dead graak. They may come to investigate.

The others were all breathing heavily, each of them filled with dread.

“If it comes down to a fight,” Daylan Hammer whispered, “don't hesitate to attack. The sunlight makes them more vulnerable. Take off their heads if you can.”

No one spoke for a long minute. The only sound that Talon could hear was the beating of her heart, the rush of her breath as it filled her lungs.

Then came the pounding of wings overhead, the labored
flapping. Darkness blotted out the sun. They've spotted us by now! she thought.

One of the Knights Eternal called out, howling like a wounded wolf.

Talon knew that howl. She had heard it from her father. It wasn't a cry of warning or distress. It was a wyrmling call, a salute to fallen comrades.

They aren't stopping, she realized. They don't need to investigate. They already know what was done here.

The Knights Eternal flew off into the distance, wings flapping thunderously.

The Cormar twins both stuck their heads out from under their gruesome shelter at the same instant, peered up at the passing enemy.

Why can't just one of them look? Talon wondered.

When the Knights Eternal were well gone, the Cormars whispered in unison, “They were carrying something—clutching bags.”

What could they be carrying that is so important? Talon wondered.

But the answer was obvious. The fliers were coming from Caer Luciare, heading toward Rugassa.

“Forcibles,” Daylan Hammer whispered.

The emir looked Daylan in the eye. “We must attack before the enemy can put them to use.”

Daylan clasped him on the shoulder. “We shall.”

  15  

Greed is how a man motivates himself from inside. It is our lust that drives us to work long hours, to train hard for battle, to succeed.

But it is fear that motivates man from the outside. It is through terror and intimidation that a lord forces his servants to conform to his desires.

Do not be deceived. The humans sometimes try to motivate through other means, but they almost always fail.

 

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

It was well past midnight when Rhianna reached the horse-sisters with her treasure of forcibles. The sisters had broken camp and set off to the east, astride their blood mounts, riding swiftly.

It had been a generation since such a cavalry rode. Though they were but forty women with lances, bows, and blades, they were all Runelords, for each warrior had an endowment of brawn, one of grace, one of metabolism, and one of stamina. And each rode upon a war horse that was both well trained and endowed. In but a few short hours, they had traveled nearly a hundred miles in the night.

The sight of it made Rhianna giddy with hope. It was a small contingent in number, but great in power, and it brought to mind the glory of ages past.

Aside from the horses, there was little in the way of supplies. A wagon carried some food; another carriage of sorts followed bearing the wyrmling girl Kirissa.

Rhianna called out a greeting from the sky as she neared the troops, then swooped and landed in a flurry of wings.