The Wyrmling Horde (43 page)

Vulgnash's words decided them. Seeing that there was hope of forgiveness, one warrior hurled his battle-ax to the
floor in a clatter, then dropped to his knees to do obeisance.

In seconds, the rest of the Fang Guards followed suit.

Kryssidia went striding forward, into the midst of them. “Cower before me,” he cried. “For the Great Wyrm has chosen me and made me a lord over you. The Great Wyrm has come in the flesh, and now rules Rugassa and the world. But here, here in Caer Luciare, I shall be your emperor, and you shall be my people.”

With the battle won, Vulgnash set to work on his next chore. He demanded blood metal, and the wyrmling troops showed him to a foundry, where hundreds of pounds of forcibles had already been poured into molds.

Vulgnash smiled. His master would be well pleased, and Vulgnash imagined that he would be rewarded with more endowments.

Beyond that, Vulgnash had gotten something that he had wanted this day—a little vengeance.

  22  

In the world to come, every tree shall be thrown down, and nature itself shall be humbled by the Great Wyrm.

 

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

It was late evening when the Wizard Sisel and Lord Erringale reached the One True Tree. All through the day they had marched, and Erringale was witness to the rot and filth of the shadow world, the blight that afflicted the trees, the
frequent ruins abandoned by the defeated warrior clans, and the bitter scent of death.

He had never witnessed such things before.

“I thought that things were harsh in my world,” he said at one point in the journey, as they hunched inside the ruins of an old inn. “I have seen places like this in the Blasted Lands, but never have I seen destruction so unrelenting.”

“There is a whole world of ruins here,” Sisel had said. “Beyond the mountains to the south, they are mostly covered by vines in the jungle. But far to the east there are fresher ruins, vast fortresses, elegant and strong, that are no more than tombs, filled with the bones of their defenders.

“Our battles against the wyrmlings have been long. For five thousand years have we fought. Sometimes we would prevail for a few centuries, and then our people would grow complacent, and the wyrmlings would strike in greater numbers. Other times, we lost vast expanses of land, never to regain it.”

Lord Erringale listened soberly. “Daylan told me that the Great Wyrm has brought foul creatures from other worlds to boost his armies. What can you tell me of them?”

So the Wizard Sisel described what he'd seen. The folk of the netherworld knew some of the dangers: the Darkling Glories were their mortal enemies, but Erringale was horrified to hear of strengi-saats that filled the wombs of children with their own eggs so that when the young hatched, they would have fresh meat to feed upon.

“Where did they find such fell creatures?” Erringale wondered aloud.

“I do not know,” Sisel said. “Yet I am surprised that your people withhold weapons from us.”

“If we gave you superior weapons,” Erringale said, “the wyrmlings would simply take them, and in time your fate would be worse than at first.”

“Ah,” the wizard argued, “so you think it wise to withhold your knowledge from the shadow worlds. Tell me, if
one of your own people were dying of thirst, would your law forbid you from telling him where to find an oasis?”

“Of course not,” Erringale said.

“So what is the difference? One man needs water to survive, the other needs a weapon.”

Erringale fell silent and did not speak for many miles. Instead he bowed his head, consumed in thought.

The sun was setting beyond the hills like a red pearl gently falling into a bed of rose petals. The wood doves were cooing out in the oaks on the hills, while cicadas sang in the fields.

The Wizard Sisel strode through a meadow with Erringale by his side, feeling at ease. As an Earth Warden, he had been granted a special gift. He could move through the woods and meadows unnoticed by enemies and friends alike, if he so chose. Now he did so, and a rabbit beside the trail paid no more notice to him than if a fly had landed on its ear. A stag had come to drink from the still waters of the moat, and as the two men passed, they never caught its eye.

So the two reached Castle Coorm at sunset and found the drawbridge thrown down. There was no sound of dogs barking or children playing in the castle, no singing of washwomen or an old man calling his children home for dinner.

It was obvious that the castle was empty. Its inhabitants had fled.

The men crossed the planks of the drawbridge, their feet thumping lightly. Even their shadows upon the water did not frighten a trout that was lying below the surface.

Just within the wall, they found the object of their desire. There was a roundabout in the courtyard, so that wagons could maneuver onto various roads as merchants brought their wares. At the center of the roundabout was a wall made of stone, about four feet high. It was filled with earth and rocks, creating a garden; a raised planter. At the pinnacle of the rocks hunched a stone gargoyle, a man with wings covering
his face, tongue thrust out. Water poured from a spigot in his mouth.

There at his feet was the base of the True Tree. Above the gargoyle the tree's leafless branches arched in surreal beauty, as intricate as a fine piece of coral.

Never had the Wizard Sisel seen a tree so blasted. It was a marvel to behold. Every leaf was down, and fungi in colors of cream and canary covered it thicker than hoarfrost. Almost it seemed as if it were layered in snow. The setting sun painted it all in shades of rose.

The pungent odor of rot filled the courtyard, so overwhelming in intensity that Sisel raised his sleeve to cover his nose.

Erringale studied the tree. “It's true,” he said. “The One Tree did burst forth on a shadow world. But it is dead now—all gone to rot.”

“Yes,” Sisel said, “but this is not a common rot. This tree is under a powerful curse.”

The sight of it was so overwhelming that it smote Erringale, and the Bright One leapt up onto the rock wall, strode beneath the tree, and then fell to his knees, just peering up.

“It's dead,” he said at last. “There is no voice left in it. I had hoped to commune with it, but it has fallen silent.”

He peered down at the dead leaves. The land was scorched here under the tree, as only a few bones of leaves were scattered here and there. “Perhaps there is an acorn,” Erringale said hopefully. He began poking among the ashes that lay thick around the bole of the tree.

“An oak does not begin to shed acorns until it has lived more than twenty seasons,” Sisel told him. “This tree is much like an oak. I think you will not find any acorns. I visited here at Castle Coorm twelve years back, and this tree had not yet sprouted.”

Erringale's heart seemed to break at that moment. He climbed up off the ground and pulled at a twig from one of the lower branches until it snapped and broke free. “A branch from the True Tree,” he said. “My people will revere it.”

Sisel peered hard at the tree. “Perhaps we can find some life in this tree yet. Legend says that it is strong in healing powers, and therefore strong in life.”

Erringale glanced back at him, as if he were daft. “How could there be life here?”

“When a man falls into freezing water,” Sisel declared, “he often dies a kind of death. His life hides deep within. He ceases to breathe, and his heart stops beating. But there is life within him still, and if you are patient, you can revive him.

“A tree is much the same. It dies a kind of death with the coming of each winter. Its thoughts grow dim and torpid. And this tree is suffering as if through the coldest blast. But there may be life in it—not in leaf or limb, bole or branch, but down deep, in its roots.”

Sisel raised his staff, blew upon the tree, and whispered a blessing:

Root, bole, limb and bough,

be strengthened now, be strengthened now.

He pulled back and peered at the tree, as if hoping that leaves might sprout green from the dead twigs.

“There,” Sisel said. “That should stop the rot, to keep it from further damage. Now let us see if we can find any signs of life.”

With that, the two men went and searched through the town until they found the tools that they needed—a mattock and spade. Together they began to dig.

“Sisel,” Erringale asked when their hole was three feet deep. “Why would the wyrmlings try to kill the tree?”

“Because it is a thing of beauty?” the wizard guessed.

“That does not suffice. The wyrmlings are infested with wyrms. It is the Great Wyrm herself who guides their hand. Certainly she needs the tree as much as we do—if she hopes to bind the worlds into one.”

Sisel stopped digging and thought for a long moment. “Now, there is a mystery,” he said. “Perhaps the Great
Wyrm plans to try to bind the worlds without the tree. That would be her way—to try to twist the Powers to her own ends.”

“Or perhaps,” Erringale said, “she fears the tree. She may fear its protective powers. Or maybe she fears what it does, for it calls to men and urges them to be better, to seek personal perfection, and thus it is an enemy to the Great Wyrm.”

Sisel followed that line of reasoning further. “It also calls men into its service, inspiring them and filling them with hope and wisdom, in return for what little it requires. You may be right. The Great Wyrm sees it as a rival for her people's affections.”

“That which Despair cannot control,” Erringale said, “she feels the need to destroy.”

“That is certainly the way that she feels about
us.
”

“Or perhaps,” Erringale said, “the Great Wyrm herself cannot resist its allure!”

“Aaaaah,” Sisel said, smiling at the thought. “I see several reasons for the Great Wyrm to destroy it, but that most of all rings true.”

Erringale wondered aloud. “I don't know. I'm not sure that I understand. The Great Wyrm tried to kill the tree, and now she holds the Torch-bearer captive—the only man alive who might have the skill to bind the worlds. It sounds almost as if she is trying to keep him from binding the worlds together at all.”

Sisel had no answer to that. The workings of the mind of the Great Wyrm were devious.

Erringale swung his mattock a few more times; then Sisel bit into the ground with his spade.

In a moment, in the darkness, Sisel reached down into the dirt and pulled out his prize—a tiny knot from the taproot, twisted and malformed. It easily fit into the palm of his hand.

Sisel quickly took it to the gargoyle fountain and let clear water run over it. Afterward he held it up in the starlight and inspected it.

“The rot runs through and through,” he said, his voice filled with dismay.

Erringale peered at it doubtfully. “Are you certain?”

“I'm certain,” Sisel said. “The sorcerer who cast this spell was powerful indeed. There is nothing here to be saved.” He tossed the root to the ground, shoved it into the loose soil with his heel, and peered up at the tree.

Erringale stood for a moment, his heart breaking. “Is there nothing you can do?”

“I suppose,” Sisel said, “that the Earth Spirit will provide a new tree when the time is right. All that we can do is wait.”

Erringale said softly, “But we have waited for a thousand thousand years for the tree to be reborn!”

“You will have to wait a little longer. Even if one does come again, how do we know that it will not be destroyed in like manner?”

Erringale peered into the wizard's eyes in the soft evening glow, lit by stars and a new rising moon. The Wizard Sisel thought that he saw a hardness growing in Erringale's eyes that he had not witnessed before.

I wonder what it would be like, the wizard thought, if Erringale goes to war. What powers would he bring to bear? What arms might he muster? What allies can he command?