The Wyrmling Horde (42 page)

Vulgnash knew what he was thinking. Dozens of his Dedicates had been mutilated, their arms and legs removed, and Fallion could not tell if he had any appendages.

“Fool,” Vulgnash hissed. “Without arms or legs, you look like a worm. Squirm for me. Squirm for your master.”

“No, please!” Fallion called, trying to wriggle, trying to see if he had arms.

Vulgnash merely set a foot upon his forehead and held his head back so that he could not see.

“You thanked my master for letting you feel the pain of his subjects. So as your reward, he has cut the arms and legs off of thousands of them, and he has let you feel their pain. Would you like to see them?”

Suddenly Fallion lashed out with his senses, tried to pull heat from the walls of the cell. But the stone was cold and held almost no heat at all. Fallion's was a pitiful attempt at escape.

Vulgnash pulled the heat from Fallion once again, sent him deep into a swoon.

That should hold him for a few more hours, Vulgnash thought. And he will dream. . . .

Vulgnash stalked out of the dungeon, found Kryssidia, and took his last four forcibles to the chief facilitator. It did not take fifteen minutes for the facilitator to round up some small folk and rip the sight from two of them. The effect at first seemed minimal. He could not see any better in the darkness, but now the glow worms on the wall gave off a color he'd never seen—a dim green.

With the last two forcibles, Vulgnash took more endowments of metabolism, and told Kryssidia to meet him in his chambers.

Quickly Vulgnash raced up through the tunnels, climbing the stairs, like a caterpillar winding its way up a twig, until he reached his own spartan quarters, where his crypt lay.

The sun was dying on the horizon, a bloody thing dropping toward its grave. Red clouds scudded along the sky line, promising a coming storm.

For the first time in his life, Vulgnash looked out upon a world of color—blues and purples in the sky, grays and tans and greens in the forests.

So this is what a human sees, he thought in wonder.

The endowment had worked well enough. The daylight annoyed him, but it did not hurt as much now. It was bright enough so that the idea of flying repelled him, but darkness would be here soon.

He went to his closet, got a fresh red robe, and strapped on a sharpened long sword as black as obsidian.

He halted for a moment near the door to his own parapet and glanced longingly at his own tomb.

Ah, he thought, to sleep.

Vulgnash felt at peace. Torturing Fallion had salved his wounds, fed some of his need for vengeance.

But more than that, he felt secure knowing that he would be going into battle with Despair at his side.

As a Knight Eternal, Vulgnash had never been truly alive. He had no soul, and could not harbor or feed a locus. Thus, there was no way that he could communicate across the leagues with Despair, as the Death Lords did.

But now Lord Despair was displaying some new power.

He can speak to my mind, Vulgnash realized, with the powers of an Earth King, though he cannot hear my thoughts.

This development delighted Vulgnash. It almost made him equal to the Death Lords, and it raised his value to the master. At the same time it afforded him some privacy.

But an onus was upon Vulgnash. His master would be angered if he took too long to punish the Fang Guards.

Kryssidia came shortly, and the two of them raced to the nearest window and leapt from the tower, unfolding their crimson wings and taking flight.

They swooped low, so that the shadows of distant mountains covered them, and flew madly above the trees, careering this way and that, using their own momentum to hurl them forward faster and faster.

Day faded to dusk, and dusk surrendered to darkness.

As he flew even with Kryssidia, the Knight Eternal apprised him a little better of the situation at Caer Luciare. The Fang Guards were taking endowments, and they thought themselves powerful enough to challenge the empire. They were led by an egotistical fool named Chulspeth who did not know yet that Despair had taken physical form and now dwelt at Rugassa. Nor of course would Chulspeth be aware that Despair had gained unheard-of powers, the protective gifts of an Earth King.

Vulgnash knew Chulspeth. He was the leader of the Fang Guards. Vulgnash had personally chosen the man for the honor of being the first to take an endowment of bloodlust.

Once again, Vulgnash thought, I have not served my master well.

Kryssidia grew hungry, and the Knights Eternal slowed their flight for a time, veering from their course as they hunted. They found a small settlement where a little smoke from evening cooking fires hung in a haze.

It was a guard post of some kind for the small folk, a mountain village with nothing but a wall made of wood. Guards paced about in towers.

The Knights Eternal swept into the village, dodging arrow fire as they came. They spotted children playing in the street, children that leapt up in terror at the cries of their parents.

Vulgnash swooped low and scooped up a toddler on the wing, and Kryssidia did the same. The parents screamed frantically and chased after them, shaking their fists and hurling curses.

We are like jays, robbing the nests of lesser birds, Vulgnash thought as he placed his hands over the squirming boy's face and began to drain him. Child or adult, the spirits of these creatures provided the same amount of nourishment. So he and Kryssidia drained their prey, then let their corpses, their empty husks, rain from the sky.

Moments later, he heard his master's voice in his mind.
When you finish punishing my enemies, return with all haste. Bring back more blood-metal ore for forcibles.

“Yes, Lord,” Vulgnash whispered to the wind, for he knew that his master could not hear him.

As they neared Caer Luciare, Vulgnash heard his master's voice in his mind once again.
Careful, my friend. Careful. The enemy has set a trap. When you land, they will attack. It is not with a sword that you can win this battle.

Vulgnash signaled to Kryssidia with a slight tremor of the wing, and both of them veered to the left and landed in the woods.

“Our master bids us go in with fire,” Vulgnash said, and without preamble he kicked a few dead leaves into a pile, along with some wind-fallen twigs, then used a portion of his own body heat to give birth to a small flame.

He let it lick at the leaves for a few moments, growing in power and might, then twisted the flames so that they took a small alder. A warm breeze nourished the flames until soon they raged and leapt up the tree, and from there began to spread through the detritus on the forest floor.

Vulgnash strode into the midst of the burgeoning inferno and basked in the heat, like a lizard in the morning sunlight, until the inferno did not just warm him but permeated his flesh.

Then the two Knights Eternal rose into the air and went winging up the mountain.

The dead wyrmlings from the recent battle were strewn about, littering the ground where they had fallen. To be left upon the battlefield was considered a great honor, and it was the wyrmling belief that any warrior left thus would rise up from the battlefield, weapons in hand, on that day when the Great Wyrm made flesh cleave to rotten bones and brought forth her honored warriors for the last great battle at the End of Time.

The three great arches of Luciare were no longer lit by the spirits of the human ancestors; vulgar glyphs now adorned the bone-white walls, signaling that this was wyrmling territory.

No proper guard seemed to be watching the doors. Perhaps there was no one left who could. Kryssidia had described the scene inside while on the wing—fallen wyrmlings strewn about the great hall, each with an endowment wrung from him, until few were left standing.

Never had Vulgnash heard of such abandonment, such debauchery.

Vulgnash settled on the ground at the mouth of the central arch, and called out, “Chulspeth, come!”

No one stood at the door, but after a long moment, a voice cried out, high in pitch and fanatical.

“Am I a cur to be commanded so?” From the sound of his voice, Chulspeth had taken too many endowments of metabolism—perhaps twenty or more. Though he tried to slow his speech so that it might be better understood by common folk, it sounded squeaky and high, with strange lapses.

“You're not a cur,” Vulgnash said, hoping to sound reasonable, hoping to lure his enemy into the open. “I honored
you, and respected you. You were the first of our master's servants to taste the kiss of the forcible. It is rumored that you now crave it like wine, and you have lost all composure. I have come to reason with you, to offer you a chance to serve our master once again. You could be his most valued warrior.”

“I would rather serve a bull's pisser than our craven emperor!” Chulspeth squeaked. Still there was no sign of movement from within the fortress.

“The emperor no longer rules Rugassa,” Vulgnash informed him. “Despair has taken flesh, and now walks the labyrinth among us.”

The news should have inspired a proper sense of religious awe in Chulspeth, or even fanatical zeal. Instead, there was only a yelp, followed by a snarl and a threat.

“I do not fear Despair!” Chulspeth cried. “What are you, Vulgnash, nothing but a serving boy, bringing your lord dinner one moment, then pleasuring him the next? You should have a place of honor beside your lord, not groveling at his feet.” Now Chulspeth tried the inevitable bribe, one that Vulgnash had heard a thousand times before, though it varied in particulars. “You, Vulgnash, should dwell with us. You would be welcome here. You would have honor among us, and be a great lord. The finest food would be yours, the finest women.”

A soft chuckle rose from Vulgnash, cool and deadly.

“I do not desire such things,” he said. “And it would not be an honor to be counted among you. Lord Despair has come among us, and he has strange powers, unheard of among mortal men. I fear that if I were among you, he would crush us all beneath his heel, as if we were mice.”

Chulspeth roared in anguish.

Attack!
Despair's voice raged in Vulgnash's mind. Vulgnash raised a hand, prepared to unleash a fireball.

Suddenly, from the recesses of Caer Luciare, Chulspeth rushed from the shadows. Never had Vulgnash imagined such speed. Chulspeth came sprinting from the darkness,
running at well over a hundred miles per hour, a black iron javelin in his hand.

Vulgnash hurled a fireball, white-hot and roaring in its fury. It was the size of his fist when he hurled it, but as it traveled it expanded in size, so that it was a dozen feet in diameter when Chulspeth came bounding through it.

For a heartbeat, Vulgnash imagined that his foe would simply race through the flames unscathed, like a child leaping through a campfire.

But Chulspeth hesitated an instant before it struck, long enough to hurl his iron javelin.

The javelin hurtled through the flames faster than any ballista dart. With hundreds of endowments of brawn to his credit, Chulspeth's attack was devastating. The javelin struck Vulgnash in the chest at dead center and hit with such force that it passed cleanly through him.

No matter, Vulgnash thought. This flesh will knit back together in time.

Then Chulspeth bulled through the fireball.

He might have done better to dodge it.

Perhaps Chulspeth did not imagine that the flames would be as hot as they were. Or maybe with so many endowments of stamina coursing through him, he imagined himself to be invincible. Or it might have been that the endowments of bloodlust he had taken had merely driven him mad.

For whatever reason, Chulspeth leapt through the fire and came roaring out the other side, his flesh blackened and oozing, his clothes blazing like an inferno. The fire wrung cries of agony from him, yet he charged toward Vulgnash, half-sword drawn, eager to battle to the death.

Flee!
the Earth King's warning came.

Vulgnash flapped his wings, lunging into the air like a bolt of lightning, and though Chulspeth leapt to meet him, the bones of his legs snapped from the exertion, and he fell far short of his desired target.

Soaring high, Vulgnash left the High Lord of the Fang Guards there on the ground, sputtering and burning.

Now Vulgnash dove toward the central arch of Caer Luciare, where the remains of his fireball had blackened the pale archways and melted the gold foil.

Time to finish this, he thought.

He worried that he might meet strong resistance inside, but no warning from Lord Despair sounded in his mind.

He landed in the archway, and gathered heat once again. Kryssidia marched at his back. Together they strode into the tunnel, and there found the fortress as Kryssidia had described it: wyrmling warriors lay sprawled upon the floor in heaps as if they had fallen during drunken revelry, arms and legs spread akimbo.

They had not fallen from wine, but rather from granting endowments. Even now, some were rising to their feet, regaining the precious strength, stamina, and speed that they had granted to Chulspeth.

Vulgnash was sickened by this waste of power. The fools in the Fang Guard had not realized what they were doing. They were leaving Dedicates unprotected, perhaps unaware that if a Dedicate was slain, then its master would lose the use of its attributes.

If the humans had tried to return and take the fortress, Vulgnash thought, they would have found it an easy target.

Ahead, down the hall, he suddenly saw some Fang Guards ready to oppose him—half a dozen warriors standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

Their faces were filled with fear and rage in equal measure, and every muscle in their bodies seemed strained, ready to spring.

Yet they were not eager to fight.

“Are you such fools?” Vulgnash cried. “I could kill you all more easily than I dispatched Chulspeth. I should leave you to the mercies of the humans. But I will need force warriors to guard this fortress against the day of their return. Oh, and they will return—soon, and in great numbers. They left a mountain of blood metal behind.”