The Wyrmling Horde (40 page)

Three hundred miles from Rugassa, her sharp eyes descried something interesting—a cloud of dust to the south. At first she thought that it might be a great herd of shaggy elephants, but the formation was too tight. It could only be caused by vast forces marching in the wilderness.

But whose?

She veered toward it, hardly changing her course at all. Five miles later she was able to descry what troops marched there.

It was reavers, tens of thousands of them, marching roughly toward her. In the distance, they looked like great black beetles, though Rhianna knew that they were not small. Each reaver weighed more than an elephant.

As she neared, the sound of their marching feet made the earth tremble and groan; the clashing of their carapaces against the ground was like weapons clanging upon shields.

Rhianna had never seen a reaver. They were the stuff of legend, creatures that lived deep in the Underworld. She wanted a closer look, and with Vulgnash following, she wanted him to get a good look at them, too.

The reavers are marching in almost the right direction, she realized. In a day they could well be at Rugassa's walls. What would the wyrmlings make of the threat?

Rhianna swooped lower, dropping within a hundred feet of the ground, and winged toward the reavers. The cloud rising
from the ground smelled of dust and some strange musky scent.

Each reaver had four legs for walking, and two heavy arms that they used to bear weapons—great long hooks called “knight gigs,” or enormous swords that could flatten a horse and rider with a single blow. Most of the reavers were gray-black in color, and thus were common fighters. But here and there among the hive she spotted smaller reavers, reddish in color, carrying bright crystalline staves. These were the scarlet sorceresses.

Other creatures marched near the ends of the line—enormous spidery creatures that carried packs upon their backs, and enormous white wormlike creatures that she recognized as “glue mums.”

The reavers are coming for a full-fledged war, Rhianna realized. She had an almost primal fear of reavers. It was the fear of such creatures that had driven her ancestors to develop their rune lore in the first place. It was the fear of them that had caused the Runelords to build their vast fortifications.

It was tales of the depredations of reavers that had kept her awake with nightmares as a child.

So she swooped low above the reavers, and watched as the creatures raised their heads and hissed.

The reavers had no eyes in their heads. But that did not mean that they could not see. They had phillia dripping from their chins and from their bony ridge plates, and with these they sensed her presence, by scent and motion. The hissing noise came as they raised their abdomens and sprayed odors into the air, smells that they used to warn their neighbors.

She flew above the reavers, redoubling her speed, for fifteen miles. That is how long their column was. She estimated their numbers at fifty thousand strong.

How will Vulgnash like this? Rhianna wondered.

She kept flying, looking over her shoulders.

Vulgnash still followed, his blood-colored wings flapping vigorously, but he seemed to slow into a glide above the reaver horde, and finally wheeled about.

It was still midafternoon when he began to recede quickly, racing northeast toward distant Rugassa.

Her hunter had turned back.

For a long hour, as time is measured by the sun, Rhianna continued to wing away from Vulgnash, lest he renew the chase. To her, it felt like six hours or more.

At last she reached the Alcair Mountains, and flew to a huge white pine that had been taken by lightning.

The skies above were the perfect blue of a summer afternoon, and the world at large seemed as it should be. The starlings and wild pigeons that flew up from the pines sang their songs, seemingly unaware of Rhianna's desperate plight.

What will I do? Rhianna wondered.

My love is still in the dungeons of Rugassa, in the hands of the wyrmlings.

Rhianna felt sick with anguish.

There seemed to be only one place to go—to the horse-sisters. But what could they do? Grant more endowments?

Despair had more than she did, and he had the powers of an Earth King besides. She could not slay him. She dared not even try.

She felt overwhelmed by doubt.

She wondered if the Wizard Sisel might help. Daylan had said that he was abroad in the land, traveling to commune with the True Tree.

He's had all day to find it, she thought.

But it was a long hike. A man of the warrior clans was expected to run a hundred miles in a day.

If Sisel left from Cantular at dawn, he'll make it there by sundown.

The notion of going to see him pleased her. She longed to go to Castle Coorm and seek refuge beneath the One True Tree, and throw her problems upon the shoulders of the wizard and his guest from the netherworld.

But what can they do? she wondered.

The Bright Ones had never shown her any kindness as a youth; their laws forbade them to interfere in the affairs of lesser creatures like her—the so-called
shadow people
.

Appealing to the folk of the netherworld would do her no good, and while the wizard had strong protective magic, he had never gone into battle.

Worse than that, she had no time to seek his aid. The reavers were marching toward Rugassa.

By tomorrow this time they could be there, Rhianna realized. What if they attack? They could kill Fallion.

I have to get him out of there, she thought.

But how do I kill an Earth King? Or failing that, how do I defeat one? What weaknesses does he have?

Rhianna thought back to the day that the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden had died. She had never been chosen by him, had never been put under his protection. But Fallion and Jaz had, and they had often recited the words that they had heard in their own minds during Gaborn's final moments. It was part of the creed of the lords of House Orden: “Learn to love the greedy as well as the generous. Love the poor as much as the rich. Love the evil man as ardently as the good. And inasmuch as is possible in this life, when you are beset upon, return a blessing for every blow.”

In that instant, Rhianna felt almost as if Gaborn stood at her side, comforting her. She thought about Kirissa.

Could it be that he really had known that some Inkarran child would someday have to face the Wyrmling Empire?

She felt certain that he had.

Rhianna wondered about the Earth King. What were his weaknesses?

Borenson had said that it was his compassion.

Certainly, Lord Despair will not have that weakness.

And suddenly the answer hit her. Gaborn himself had given her the key.

I can't face an Earth King, she thought. I should not even try. With his power, he'll sense the danger. Which leaves
only one alternative: return a blessing with every blow. So long as I present no danger, Despair cannot be forewarned of my attack.

Rhianna wondered, could she really free Fallion without harming a living soul?

Despair would not suspect such a bold move. Indeed, he was probably incapable of thinking of it. “Of course any intruder would kill the guards.” That is how he thought.

But Rhianna knew of at least one air vent that was not guarded.

She had great strength. She had the speed. She had the key to the wyrmling dungeon on a thong around her neck.

I have to try, she told herself.

With that she took to the air, heading for a brief stop in Beldinook.

  20  

The Great Wyrm shall put down all enemies. No weapon created by man can prevail against her.

 

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

In the fortress at Rugassa, wyrmling guards furtively dragged Despair's captives across the floor of the arena, laying them side by side, face up, arranged from largest to smallest, much as a fisherman might display the salmon that he had caught.

The wyrmling guards were terrified. The Death Lords hovered over the bodies, specters of shadow garbed in black robes of such thin weave that they were almost insubstantial.
The Death Lords' lightest touch had devastated even the most powerful of the Runelords, leaving them paralyzed and half-dead.

Even now, the Death Lords radiated an icy aura that seemed to penetrate even Despair's thickest cloak, for it was not a cold that chilled the body so much as it chilled the soul.

The touch of a Death Lord was the touch of the grave. Had they wanted to, the Death Lords could have slain their victims with that touch. But Despair had warned them to keep the people alive.

Yet the nearness of the victims, the tastiness of their souls, tempted the wights to feed. They were like dogs upon a hunt, scenting blood while the bloodlust is at its height, unable to forbear when a spear brings down a stag.

Thus, the wyrmling guards cowered, lest they brush up against the hunger-maddened wights.

For their parts, the wights loomed above the fallen ones, trembling with anticipation.

“What shall we do with them, Great Wyrm?” a wight asked, its voice a hiss.

Despair approved of their lust, for it served him well.

“Leave them to me,” Despair said.

“But . . . we hunger,” the wight complained.

In touching mortal flesh, the wights had tasted their victims' spirits. For the wights, gazing down upon their victims would be like a man standing over a tremendous feast—where fresh loaves of warm bread filled the room with their scent, while delectable meats and pastries and puddings begged to be eaten—and being told that one might only have a single nibble.

“You have served me well,” Despair told them. “Go to your chambers. We have fresh captives from the wild—small folks whose souls are sweeter and more succulent than any wyrmling. The guards will bring some shortly.”

The wights scattered at his command. A wind seemed to rise, and they floated away upon it, their black garments fluttering.

Despair bent over his victims and studied their faces.
Each of them had gone as white as a wolf's tooth. Each of them bore a wound—a single place where a Death Lord had touched them. All breathed shallowly, and were in danger of dying.

But they were young and strong, and had endowments of stamina to boot. It was difficult to know if their stamina could keep them alive, for the touch of a Death Lord wounded the soul more than the body.

Most likely, Despair decided, they will each wake in a few hours, feeling more dead than alive. In time, even a wound to the spirit can heal.

“My lord,” a guard asked, “shall we execute any of them?”

Despair peered at his captives, wondering how best to use them. He recognized some of them. Despair had taken over Areth Sul Urstone's body, and thus could access the prince's memories.

The Emir Tuul Ra had been Areth Sul Urstone's most beloved friend at one time. The emir's people had been destroyed, and thus Despair considered that he might be of little worth as a political prisoner. Yet one never knew. Who ruled the folk of Caer Luciare now?

Vulgnash had killed their king, and Areth was his heir. That meant that they had no king at the moment. Had the people chosen the emir to act as regent?

It would have been a wise choice, Despair considered.

Thus, the emir had possible worth as a political prisoner. The folk of Caer Luciare might offer bribes for his release. But there was a greater hope.

Why had the emir come? To save Areth Sul Urstone alone? Or could he have, in his short span of time, forged some kind of bond with Fallion?

That was the question that nagged Despair. Who among these would Fallion value most? Who might he want to save?

Daylan Hammer of course had lived for an eternity. Despair had killed him time and time again, but his spirit
was strong, and within days of his death, he would re-corporate.

How much has Daylan taught Fallion? Lord Despair wondered. What kind of bond have they forged?

He studied the girl that they had captured, leaned over her. She was petite for a girl of the warrior clans, and her hair was unusually dark. Most of those in the clans were redheaded, but her hair was a deep chestnut in color.