The Wyrmling Horde (8 page)

The emir nodded appreciatively at that. “The better to protect you. Very well, I shall call you Talon from now on. What does the name mean, in the tongue of the small folk?”

“It is a claw, like that found on a hawk,” Talon said.

“Interesting,” the emir said. “Do you know what the name Tholna means?”

Tholna was a common name among girls. “It is an ancient weapon, I've heard.”

“Not so ancient. It was often used in Dalharristan, when I was a lad. It had a handle that one could grasp in the hand, with two long hooks attached to it—hooks that protruded on either side of the middle finger. Thus, in ancient Dalharristan, the weapon was called a ‘talon.'

“It is odd, don't you think,” the emir continued, “that your father would give you the same name on both worlds? It makes me wonder how many other similarities there might be.”

The news was indeed intriguing. Talon had been trained in many weapons, but had never even seen a tholna. “Why would I want to pull a foe in close, where he might strike within my kill zone?”

The emir seemed mildly surprised by the question, and appreciative of it. “In the close combat of a large battle it was surprisingly effective. It was used only as an off-hand weapon, usually with a parry blade. The tholna could be hooked into the shoulder or leg of an opponent, to throw him off balance. Originally, it was developed by the wyrmlings—used to grasp fleeing humans.”

Talon considered. The parry blade was a short sword with a round guard so large that it was almost as big as a targe. In close combat, where hundreds of men might be fighting at once, the parry blade was an effective stabbing weapon, for it was difficult to avoid an expert blow.

“An interesting combination of weapons,” Talon said.
“But I do not think they would be of much use in our war against wyrmlings.”

“No,” the emir said, “which is why they lost popularity.”

The company began to move out, and Talon prepared to march with it.

The emir asked, “May I walk with you?”

“Me?” Talon asked. She could not understand why he would want to.

“I need to learn the tongue of the small folk,” the emir said. “I was hoping that you could teach me?” Talon wondered why he did not just ask one of his warriors. Several men among the warrior clans had been bound into one, and thus knew how to speak Rofehavanish. As if divining her thoughts the emir added, “I could ask one of my men, but to tell the truth, you are more pleasant to look upon.”

The compliment took Talon off guard and left her feeling weak in the knees.

She found the emir attractive. He was a widower, and therefore available. But she had never considered herself worthy of his attention.

Nevertheless, they were both of marriageable age, and among the warrior clans, men and women were taught to wed the strongest possible mate.

The Emir Tuul Ra was older than Talon, but he was blessed with a face and figure that were somehow timeless. He could have been any age between thirty and forty-five. Though he had a daughter just a few months older than Talon, she found him beguiling, and she imagined him to be young. She imagined that he had married as a young teen, as royals often did in his land.

Talon was eighteen years old—a free woman on her world, old enough to select her own husband—and she was considered to be of prime breeding age and stock.

The emir took her elbow gently, and walked beside her in a courtly manner.

She smiled shyly, and walked with him, pointing out things—grass, trees, sky, sun—and teaching him their Rofehavanish names.

The emir listened intently and experimented with each word, trying it on his tongue. He turned out to be a marvelously adept student, for in his youth he had been forced to master several languages. More important, he was from the ruling caste in his own land, and thus had been bred for intelligence. Thus, his forefathers had been selected not just to be great warriors, but to be men of sound character and deep wisdom.

They walked along for a pair of hours, Talon trying to match the emir's faster pace, until at last they reached the front of the column, matching stride for stride. The emir learned with surprising rapidity, and kept demanding to learn more, as if he hoped to master the Rofehavanish tongue in a single day.

He feels an onus is upon him, she realized. His every muscle is strung as tight as a bow. He has an entire nation to save, and he thinks that knowing this language might be the key.

At Talon's back, Alun and Siyaddah were lost in their own conversation, and time and again the war dogs came boiling around them all in a pack.

But as they talked, Talon heard one man a few rows behind question loudly, “Where are we going? Ah, this is madness! Who is in charge here?”

She realized that she had been hearing similar grumbles farther off all morning long, and she herself had wondered who was in charge, but the emir's lessons had captured her attention and taken her mind from the problem.

The emir rounded and called, “Halt! Halt! Everyone gather around!” He leapt up on a fallen tree. The bark had stripped away over the years, so that the bole was bleached whiter than a skull. The Wizard Sisel came to stand at the emir's back on the right, and Daylan Hammer to his left. Thus, with the emir having some elevation, it felt almost as if they had formed a natural amphitheater. The crowd began to gather around. There was nervousness in the air. Talon found herself backing away, farther into the crowd, hoping to assess its mood.

“There is grumbling among you,” the emir said—loudly, so that he could be heard by all who were pleased to listen. “You are worried, as you should be. You ask, ‘Where are we going?' ” At that there were grunts of assent and wise nods. “ ‘Who leads us now, and by what right?' ‘Our king is dead. Warlord Madoc is dead. Why are we traveling north, when the way is blocked?' ”

They were good questions all, Talon knew.

“I will tell you,” the emir said. “No one leads us now.” At that the folks in the crowd glanced from side to side, and some shook their heads. It was a problem that they had never faced before. “Here in our hour of greatest need, no one leads us.”

“You should lead us!” one of the young warlords cried in a husky voice, and there were cheers from many. But almost instantly Warlord Madoc's sons shouted, “No! No!,” and their supporters chimed in, while others hissed and jeered.

Talon was astonished by the ferocity of their response. The Emir Tuul Ra had always been a man of high station, well liked by the people. But many a peasant shook a fist in the air and adamantly rejected the notion that he should lead.

“Who are you to tell us what to do?” an old woman demanded at Talon's side. Others cried, “Madoc! Clan Madoc!”

Old warlords raised their axes in the air and began to chant, “Madoc! Madoc! Madoc!”

Talon felt bewildered, and had to wonder why so few would support the emir. In part, she suspected that it was because he was foreign-born and had lost his own war against the wyrmlings.

But the people didn't just seem to be rising up against him. There was genuine support for Clan Madoc.

Old Warlord Madoc had been a bold man, it was true, but his character had been flawed. He had gained popularity among the lesser lords by flattering them and offering bribes. If the Madocs took power, many a man would find himself
given an office that he was not fit for, shoving aside men who were wiser and better qualified. The resulting upheaval, in this difficult time, would be a disaster.

But it wasn't just secondary posts that Talon had to worry about. Madoc's sons were not their father's equal—not in courage, not in battle prowess, not in wisdom or intelligence or cunning.

But apparently some of the lords did not care. So long as the bribes continued and undeserved wealth and honors flowed into their hands . . .

“Emir Tuul Ra!” Talon cried. “Emir Tuul Ra!” A few others raised the chant, and some old woman turned to Talon and raged, “Shut your mouth, damn you. You don't know what you're saying!”

But Talon cried all the louder, and soon tempers were flaring. In some knots, weapons were drawn. It almost looked as if it would turn to civil war.

A great good that will do, Talon thought. The wyrmlings will rejoice to see it.

Daylan Hammer whistled loudly, to capture folks' attention.

The emir held his hands up, begging for quiet, seemingly as baffled by the outcry and clamor as Talon was. He tried to dispel the rising tide of rage. “I do not propose to be your leader,” he said. “I led a nation once, a proud nation that was larger than all of your eastern realms combined. Where is it now? I will tell you: I led it to ruin. The wyrmlings destroyed it.”

Talon wanted to argue. It was not the emir's fault. Tuul Ra had been but a youth at the time when his father died in battle, and his people had been refugees fleeing the wyrmling horde. The war that destroyed them had been waged for centuries, and Tuul Ra had inherited his defeat. She remembered even as a tot how her father had said that the emir “did a miraculous job of fighting an unwinnable war.”

Apparently, others knew the truth, too, for some cried, “No! That is not how it was.”

The emir was a hero in Talon's mind. He had dealt savage blows to the wyrmlings against all odds. He'd captured the wyrmling princess, and thus forestalled last night's attack for more than a decade. He was such a hero Talon believed that his name would be remembered in the Halls of Eternity.

But the emir called the protesters to quiet. “I will tell you who should lead you,” he shouted. “Your prince—Areth Sul Urstone.”

There was silence for a moment. The naysayers had not expected that. Their prince had been taken captive by the wyrmlings years ago, and it was believed that he was still held in the dungeons of Rugassa.

“He can't lead us,” Connor Madoc shouted, striding from the crowd to confront the emir. “If he's even alive, what's left of him—a gibbering shell of a man? The wyrmling torturers will have made a wreck of him.”

“I doubt it,” the emir said resolutely. “All who knew Prince Urstone doubt it. The prince that I knew was the best man that I have ever met. If all men were such as he, there would be no need for prisons or judges or barristers, for there would be no crime. All men would dwell in peace and deal honorably and courteously with one another. All husbands would love their wives, and hold to their wives alone. All children would love and emulate their fathers, for their fathers would be worthy of their love. There would be no need for armies, for there would be no wars.

“Can you imagine what kind of world that would make? So much of our labor is only a waste. We wage an endless war against the evils among us, and it drains our every resource—our time, our wealth, and even our very hope.

“But that's the kind of man I knew—a good man, a just man. Perhaps he is just a memory. Perhaps you're right. Maybe he has been tormented beyond all reason, and his mind has gone to waste. He might now be nothing more than a maddened animal, craving his own death.

“But I hope for something better. There was a firmness in Areth Sul Urstone that put iron to shame. Never have I known a man of stronger resolve. I believe that he resisted
his torturers through these years. I have been told that upon the shadow world, his shadow self was great indeed, and that he was a king beloved of his people more than any other. It is said that even the earth loved him, and granted to him great powers to protect his realm. Thus he was called an ‘Earth King.'

“It is my hope that now that the worlds have combined, he may become such once again. I believe that he still lives, and it is my intent”—Emir Tuul Ra's voice suddenly turned to a snarl, as if terrible passions had long been building inside and only now fought their way free—“to
bring him home
!”

At that some of the older men cheered and raised their battle-axes and danced in celebration. Some of the older women swiped tears from their eyes.

But Talon felt little. She had never known the prince. He'd been captured when she was just a toddler. Most of the younger generation had never met him.

She had met his shadow self, of course—the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden. But how much like him could Areth Sul Urstone be? Areth Sul Urstone was from a world that had never heard of Earth Kings.

The Wizard Sisel hoped that with the binding of the worlds, the Earth Spirit would grant that title to Areth's shadow self. But Talon wasn't sure if that would happen.

“What would you have us do,” Drewish Madoc shouted at the emir, “squat here in the field while you plot some mad rescue? We should get going. We should devise some fortification, prepare for battle. The wyrmlings will be upon us after dusk.”

“What fortification would you suggest?” the emir asked. “Shall we dig a trench and build a nice little battle wall? How will that help us, when the wyrmlings took Caer Luciare—one of our greatest fortresses—only hours ago? It would be madness to fight them, and there is nowhere to run.” He jutted his chin toward Daylan. The immortal stood calmly. “But Daylan Hammer has a plan for escape, one that is not without its own risks. I will let him tell you of it.”

Daylan stepped forward a few paces. “As you know, our passage is blocked to the north. With the colliding of the worlds, a great sea is emptying and filling the River Dyll-Tandor. It has flooded to the north and the east, and it is filling the valleys to the west. We cannot escape in those directions. The mountains to the south might seem the only logical choice, but you all know the dangers. The weather there is likely to be harsh, even at this time of year. But there is another danger: with the great change that has been wrought, the mountains themselves will be unstable. Landslides are common enough in the wet season, they will be far more likely now. I do not think we should venture south.

“That leaves only one hope. You folk of Caer Luciare have no memory of how the worlds were formed. Among the wyrmlings it is taught that the Great Wyrm formed the world, and that is half-true.