The Wyrmling Horde (49 page)

His heart hammered with excitement; emotions that he'd never felt before assailed him—dread, hopelessness, fatigue. He'd never realized how powerful and incapacitating human emotions could be.

I'm mortal.

It was like a slow poison.

I might live for a few years, he realized, but I will surely die.

In fact, he wasn't sure that he could live even a few hours more.

How old am I? he wondered. He had existed for five thousand years, given a semblance of life from the time that he was a stillborn child, strangled first, then stripped from his mother's womb.

No human lived so long, and indeed he had sent his consciousness through hundreds of corpses.

So if he had suffered a mortal's fate, he would have died of old age by now.

How old is the body I've taken?

He did not know. He had taken the corpse from a tomb, where it had lain rotting. The hands looked old—with thick veins and dark patches of liver spots.

How had it died? Vulgnash wondered. There were no wounds upon the corpse, no gashes from an ax, no broken bones. Vulgnash had checked for such things before taking it.

Had it died of disease—a hacking cough, a weakness of the heart?

He had no way of knowing.

Whatever killed the previous owner could kill me, Vulgnash realized. I could die any second.

Few weapons had ever been formed that could slay a Knight Eternal. Now Vulgnash felt vulnerable.

A voice rang out from the trees. Vulgnash peered up, but could not find the source of it. It was as if the woods spoke to him, not some man. Yet it was a human voice, the crowing voice of the Wizard Sisel. “Vulgnash,” he shouted. “How does it feel to be mortal?”

“Why?” Vulgnash screamed, peering this way and that, trying to find the source of the call. But all that he saw were the gray boles of trees, spotted with lichens and moss.

“You have taken countless lives,” Sisel called. “And the thought occurred to me—how can he value that which he has never owned?”

Vulgnash tried to clear the phlegm from his throat, for it was thick and crusty. He wanted to shout some curse, but a great weariness was on him. He had not slept in days.

“So,” Sisel said, “consider now your allegiance. You were a servant of death. Your masters fed you till you grew strong by consuming innocent souls.

“But think: there in that empire of death, what can they offer you now?

“I invite you to join us, to switch your allegiance. I can heal your wounds, help you.”

There were no words to express Vulgnash's outrage. He knew curses that he could hurl, but they would do no good. He peered about frantically, searching for some sign of the wizard, but the woods were still and empty.

He peered up, realizing that the voice might have been coming from the hillside above.

At last, panting from weakness and despair, Vulgnash roared his defiance. “Never!” he cried. “I come for you, by all that is unholy I shall have you!”

Cramped with pain, Fallion Orden hugged Rhianna good-bye. They stood in the deep woods not two hundred yards from where Vulgnash roared, hidden by little more than the Wizard Sisel's spell. Behind Rhianna, a door to the netherworld yawned wide.

It was a solemn moment. Fallion did not know if he would ever see his friends again.

For her part, Rhianna stood before him, shaking, looking so weak that he thought she might swoon. All of her endowments had failed her. None gave her the strength for this moment.

“I love you,” she said. “More than you can ever know.”

Fallion hugged her hard. His body told him that he was being torn apart—that teeth were shattering in his head, that ears were being stripped into ragged bits, that skin was being pulled from his face by some brute who wielded powerful tongs.

But he also felt Rhianna's yielding flesh, and knew that her fierce love was true. That memory would have to suffice. It would have to be something he held on to in the weeks and years to come.

“I should have married you by now,” Fallion told her. “I should never have waited, or entertained other thoughts. I should have seen that you were my destiny.”

Rhianna wept bitter tears on his shoulder, and kissed him good-bye. It did not seem like a long kiss. Had she had a week to hold him, it could not have been long enough.

She has twenty endowments of metabolism, he realized. To her it seems long enough.

Grimacing in pain, Rhianna reached up and covered her belly with one hand.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Rhianna shook her head in anguish, then apologized. “I think that some Darkling Glories just found my Dedicates.”

There was such sorrow in her face that Fallion wished that he could take one more endowment of compassion, take upon himself all of her pain.

Talon stepped forward and hugged him briefly with one arm. She'd taken the little girl from the wagon, and now held the sleeping child.

“At least we have saved something from this world,” Fallion told her.

Daylan clapped him on the shoulder, and offered a bit of advice. “You cannot break free from Lord Despair, but here is something that might help. The emperor's daughter, Princess Kan-hazur, will weaken over the coming days. While in our prison at Caer Luciare, she was poisoned with redwort. Its effects can kill her as she withdraws from it. I know that you cannot break free, but perhaps this information will be of use to you. You may be able to barter for favors—for leniency toward your Dedicates.”

Last of all came the emir. He did not speak. He did not need to. They were more than brothers now, for they were joined with a special bond. Each of them bore the scars of a fresh endowment of wit. Fallion's own scar was upon the heel of his right foot, where he hoped it might never be seen.

I will be with you, my friend,
the emir whispered into Fallion's mind.
Through all of your trials, I will be there to advise you, to console you.

And I will guide you as best I can,
Fallion offered in return,
when you seek out the Seals of Creation, and bind the worlds into one.

The emir clasped Fallion on the shoulder, and nodded.

Moments later, Fallion's friends were gone, stepping one by one into a brighter world, where the wind blew sweeter scents.

Fallion turned and walked through the brush, partly hunched and racked by pain, until he found Vulgnash there in the leaves, driven to his knees.

Fallion dared not fight him. Fallion had his skills as a flameweaver, skills that Vulgnash could never match. But
they did not lend themselves to battle. Besides, Vulgnash was a powerful Runelord.

“I'm ready to return to your master,” Fallion said.

Vulgnash glared at him with murderous eyes. The great wyrmling in his red robes looked different now. His gray skin had fleshy hues to it, and there were emotions in his eyes that Fallion had never seen before—rage, self-pity, hurt.

“Where are the others?” Vulgnash roared.

“They've gone where you cannot find them,” Fallion said.

Quicker than a snake, Vulgnash reached out a hand and stripped the heat from Fallion's body. He felt himself falling, falling, as if into a sea of ice.

Back in Rugassa, Lord Despair stood upon the gargoyle outside his rooms. He peered down upon his minions, toiling in the dark fields, and smiled.

Lightning flashed above Mount Rugassa, and thunder pealed.

All was right with the world. The city of Rugassa lay beneath a dark cloud, one that would never lift. The Darkling Glories had put a pall over the city, so that for miles around, the night would never end.

Thousands of the creatures were streaming through the world gate, eager to hear his command, while the Thissians instructed them.

To the south, armies of reavers were marching toward him. Yet Lord Despair felt no fear. He had sent a Thissian ambassador to communicate with them, to invite them to join him, and the reavers would bow down to him and obey.

The Earth Spirit whispered peace to his soul, and Despair had no fear.

Only the small folk of the world presented any threat now, and that threat was dissipating too.

Darkling Glories were already flying in every direction, hunting down the small folk, looking for those who might have given themselves to his enemies as Dedicates.

Within a matter of days, the entire world would be under his sway.

The little mouse in the back of his skull fretted and squeaked its imprecations. “Your dying amuses me, Areth,” Despair whispered. “Draw it out for as long as you like.”

Despair smiled. He could sense Fallion. At this very moment, the young man was on his way home.

 

 

 

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A TOR HARDCOVER         ISBN 978-0-7653-2168-8

  Copyright © 2009 by David Farland

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