Wurm War
Outcast Book IV
Christopher Golden
&
Thomas Sniegoski
Version History
Scanned & proofed by N.E.R.D. v1.0
They did the big work.
Cleaned, re-formatted & proofread by nukie. v1.1
Reformatted for LIT by BD v1.1 (BD)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Prologue
SkyHaven was falling, and it was all Timothy’s fault.
The world of Terra ran entirely on magic. It was within everything and everyone, with a single exception—Timothy Cade, the only person on Terra who had no capacity for magic. Behind his back, the mages snickered and called him the un-magician. It was a slur, an insult, but it was true.
Magic had no affect on him, and if he so much as touched anything enchanted, he would temporarily unravel spells that even the most powerful Wizards of Old could not have broken. Not only that, but recently he discovered that if he concentrated hard enough, he could stretch the nullifying field that surrounded him, so he didn’t even have to touch magic to disrupt it.
Timothy had always thought of the effect he had on magic—and his inability to perform even the simplest spell—as an affliction. But more and more he had been finding that it was what made him unique, and that there was strength in him that he had never known. Magic itself was pure, but if the intentions of the mage wielding it were cruel or evil, the magic became dark and deadly.
Never had there been a wizard as dark and cruel as Alhazred. Long thought to be dead, he had returned with an insidious plan. He had been kidnapping and killing mages so that he could absorb their magic. Worse, he had collected thousands of ghostfire lamps—lights powered by the magical spirit essence of dead mages—and was consuming the magic from their lingering souls. But that was only the beginning. Alhazred had begun to tap into the magical matrix—the very source of all the magic in the world—and once he took control of that, no one would be able to stand against him.
Timothy knew he had to do something.
Focusing on the tingling sensation of the magic as it slid over him, he pushed and felt the null field ballooning around him—expanding. It took every ounce of will and inner strength he could muster to force the field away from himself, spreading and stretching to encompass the entire massive chamber, and beyond.
Alhazred’s eyes had darkened in anger as every ghostfire lamp, every piece of spell-glass in the room, shattered in a single moment, releasing the energies of the dead mages in a blinding flash. For the briefest of moments, Timothy felt triumphant.
And then SkyHaven—an island fortress that floated above the ocean—began to fall from the sky.
His mind cried out in panic. Through fear and instinct, he drew the null field back to himself, and the freefall of SkyHaven came to an abrupt and stomach-flipping stop.
The realization of what he had done gradually sank in.
I’ve disrupted the whole matrix, he thought. Everything must have winked out for a second, all of the magical power in the area … and maybe farther…
Suddenly he was very afraid, distracted only by the dark wizard’s pitiful howl of defeat. Timothy watched as Alhazred at last began to die; his gray flesh withering and crinkling like burning parchment. Darkness puffed out of him, and soon there was nothing left of the evil archmage but drifting ash on the floor.
And with Alhazred at last defeated, Timothy’s thoughts painfully returned to what he had done, how he had reached out and touched the power of the world.
“Are you okay?” Cassandra Nicodemus asked from somewhere in the darkness of the chamber.
Timothy could not even begin to answer that question.
Chapter One
The intensity of the buzzing hum inside his thick, horned skull nearly forced Verlis from the sky above Tora’nah. He faltered and began to drop, but quickly regained his senses, flapping his leathery wings all the harder, and soaring upward again. His heart hammered in his broad chest, and alarms of danger raced through him. The last time he had experienced this hum, he had been wearing a helmet forged of Malleum—the metal tied intrinsically to his kind, the descendants of dragons known as the Wurm.
But now it appeared that he didn’t need the helmet to feel this connection.
Verlis sped through the air toward the magical barrier between dimensions that separated Terra from Draconae, the world to which the Wurm had been banished many decades past. It was called Alhazred’s Divide. On the other side was a Wurm civilization of savagery and tyranny, lorded over by a general called Raptus, who wanted nothing more than for his sorcerers to tear down the Veil so that he and his army could invade Terra and destroy the world of mages.
Filled with a terrible dread, Verlis spread his wings and hovered before the barrier. The light of Alhazred’s Divide shone from ground to sky, from horizon to horizon, as it had for centuries, but now its ethereal light had dimmed. The hum in Verlis’s skull increased and he hissed in pain, flinching away from the magical barrier.
As it winked out, all the magic in Tora’nah cut off for just a moment.
A moment was long enough. The barrier fell with a sound like breaking glass, the spell at last destroyed, and with a murderous roar of triumph, the barbaric Wurm that had been trying to break it down from the other side began to come through. The sky beyond—the sky of Draconae—was filled with dark, winged figures, the Wurm gathering like storm clouds as they realized what had happened.
The first wave emerged on foot, cautiously, from the large rip that had been torn in the fabric of reality. The edges of the dimensional tear hissed and sputtered. Verlis watched them come, for a moment unable to believe that the barrier had been broken, and then he remembered the mages at the mining operation nearby, digging for the precious metal Malleum, and realized their safety was now in jeopardy.
Spurred to action, Verlis swooped down out of the sky toward the invaders. He opened his massive jaws and a stream of liquid fire erupted from his gullet, bathing them in flames as he flew past and away. They were his kinsmen, these Wurm, but not like him at all. They had waged a civil war upon his clan, who wanted only peace. To him they were the enemy.
Two of the Wurm soldiers roared in pain as Verlis’s fire engulfed them, and the others were distracted by his attack, some even hesitating on the threshold of this world. But Verlis knew that this was at best a temporary distraction. He only hoped that it would provide him enough time to warn the workers at the mining operation that what they had feared most had happened.
Wings pounding the air, Verlis soared over the ancient home of the Dragons of Old, desperate to reach his human comrades in time. He flew low above the mages’ encampment, finding it deserted as expected. Most of the workers would still be toiling at the mines, and he redoubled his speed, hurrying toward them. The mages were excavating dangerously close to the burial grounds of his ancestors, but he had kept them away from the actual graves of the ancient dragons.
The air was filled with the droning, grinding noise of the digging machine Timothy Cade had designed, and as Verlis swooped down toward the mining operation, he saw the metal thing burrowing into the hillside, boring a hole from which the mages would excavate tons of Malleum for weapons and armor to fight against the Wurm.
Or, at least, that had been the plan.
T
ime had suddenly run out.
Verlis caught sight of Walter Telford, the project coordinator, who stood talking animatedly with a pair of miners. They all wore troubled expressions, and Verlis understood. They wouldn’t know yet that an attack was under way, but they were suffused with magic—they would have felt the magical matrix flicker.
“Walter!” the Wurm roared, smoke furling from his nostrils, the wind whipping past him.
Telford glanced up and lifted a hand. “Greetings, Verlis,” he cried over the sounds of the digging machine. “I see you felt it as well. Do you have any idea—”
“The Divide has fallen!” the Wurm bellowed over the noise of the excavation, streams of fire leaking from his jaws.
Telford stepped back, the look upon his face showing that he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly The coordinator’s eyes bulged as he turned to another worker, saying something into his ear. The worker ran to stand beneath the Burrower, waving his arms to shut the noisy machine down.
“Are you sure, Verlis?” Telford called. As the site fell silent, all mining operations ceasing, the men and women gathered around. “Absolutely certain?”
“I saw the barrier fall with my own eyes,” the Wurm growled. “Whatever interrupted the flow of magic gave Raptus and his sorcerers the opening they needed. Alhazred’s Divide has been torn down. The Wurm of Draconae are invading!”
The coordinator’s body seemed to diminish in size; his head slowly hanging low. “We’re not ready. There are no weapons, no armor, except what’s at the Forge right now.”
From the distance came a sound that could have been the rumbling of a distant storm, but Verlis knew otherwise.
Telford heard it as well, craning his head to listen. The others began to mutter worriedly, some already starting to move away from the machine and the mine, searching for some kind of cover. In the distance Verlis saw the workers from the Forge, wearing their heavy gloves and thick aprons, begin to emerge from the building where the Malleum was being processed.
“That’s not a storm, is it?” Telford asked, looking up and out of the valley at the slate gray sky.
“No, it is not,” Verlis replied, his inner fire roiling within his chest, causing steam to rise from the sides of his mouth. The sound was moving closer.
“Come on, all of you!” Telford shouted, and he started at a run toward the Forge.
Many of the miners followed, but others took that as their signal to flee in earnest. Instead of hurrying away, they were sprinting, perhaps thinking to take shelter in some cave or other. None of them ran toward the village. It would be in flames soon enough.
Verlis took flight, keeping pace with Telford and the miners courageous enough not to run for their lives. The Wurm glanced back repeatedly, and he saw dark figures against the sky, Raptus’s soldiers at last taking flight. Black smoke rose on the horizon, the first of the huts now burning in the small village encampment the mages had built.
Telford led them to the Forge. The workers there were all moving outside, curiosity and fear etched in their faces. Verlis saw Charna Tayvis, the Forge supervisor, but her focus was on Telford.
“What’s going on, Walter?” Charna demanded. She was a large, powerful-looking woman, her face covered in the dirt and grime of her labors. The blacksmiths grumbled behind her, eager for an answer as well.
“We’re under attack. Raptus has broken through.”
The blacksmiths looked horrified, as well they should have. Raptus was a brutal savage and a cunning general, utterly without mercy. Verlis knew this from experience. But Telford did not allow fear to fester.
“Gather up whatever you’ve already forged, Malleum weapons, helmets, whatever there is,” he instructed the smiths. “Not a piece is to be wasted.”
Charna stepped forward, removing the heavy gloves from her hands. “A good many pieces were shipped out to Arcanum two days past,” she said. “Enough to fortify a battalion. All that’s left here is what we’ve worked on since then.”
One of the miners, the man who had been operating Timothy’s digging machine, came forward. Fear shone in his eyes, and Verlis could smell the stink of panic seeping from his pores.
“And what then?” he asked, gazing up toward the rim of the small valley in which they toiled. The rumbling was louder now—closer. “Once we gather the weapons—what then?”
One of the blacksmiths had left the Forge carrying a weapon he had obviously been working on. It was a Malleum spear, its head tapering to a nasty point. Forged from this metal, it would pierce even the toughest of Wurm hides, and their armor as well.
Telford took the weapon from him and hefted it in his hands. “We use them for what they were intended,” he said in a forceful voice, eyes searching out every face in the crowd. “We use them to fight for our lives.”
Miners and smiths alike dispersed quickly, rushing into the Forge to arm themselves.
“How long before they are upon us?” Telford asked, coming to stand at Verlis’s side, spear still in hand.
“Not long,” Verlis growled, watching the sky begin to darken with black smoke as the entire village was set aflame. Ominous winged figures cruised amid the smoke, the flapping of hundreds of pairs of wings sounding like the roll of thunder. “Not long at all.”
Timothy knelt by the body of Leander Maddox, his friend and mentor, who had looked out for him since the death of his father. The mage had been a huge man both in stature and in heart, but he seemed so small now, there on the ground, no life left within him, no spirit, no magic. Cassandra had gone quickly back up to the room from which they had descended into this secret chamber and brought back the lantern of hungry fire that Timothy used. This, to him, was pure fire. Not magical. Not ghostfire, made from the souls of dead mages. This world had always perceived it as the rechanneling of magical energy to useful purpose, but Timothy had discovered that the ghosts of mages were trapped in the fire, unable to go on to their final reward, and he thought it criminally tragic. Now Cassandra knelt by his side, hungry fire lantern in her hand, and shared in his sorrow over the death of the man who had been their teacher and protector. Not far away stood Ivar, last surviving warrior of the Asura tribe. He had suffered injuries in the battle with Alhazred, but he stood with his hands together as though saying a prayer over Leander’s remains, and he muttered a kind of incantation under his breath, a chant to some higher power.
Cassandra placed the lantern on the floor beside him. “I’m so sorry,” she said, bowing her head. “I knew him only a short time, but long enough to know he was a great man. Arcanum has lost a treasure today.”
“He will be missed,” Ivar said, his voice raspy and weak. “More than ever, the Parliament of Mages needs leaders like Leander Maddox.”
Timothy heard their words of solace, but could not find his own voice. His mind was filled with memories of the man, of the kindness in his eyes, of the quiet strength that he had and that he inspired in others. Timothy recalled the first time he had seen Leander as he came through the magical doorway from Terra and into the world where the boy had been hidden away at birth due to his affliction. Even then, at that first look, he had known that the burly, bearded mage with the wild mane of red hair was a friend. Leander had been manipulated by evil, but in his heart, he had always remained loyal to the memory of Timothy’s father, Argus Cade, who had been Leander’s own teacher.
With a long, mournful breath, Timothy finally summoned the words in his heart. He held Leander’s cold, stiff fingers in his own. “He always felt responsible, somehow, for the way the mages treated me. He blamed himself for their fear, their ignorance. I was born on Terra, but I think he wished that he had left me where he’d found me—to spare me from all that I’ve been exposed to since stepping through that doorway into this world.”
Timothy studied Leander’s pale face. If not for the spatters of blood that dappled the man’s cheek, it would have appeared that the great mage was merely sleeping.
Cassandra put a comforting hand on
his shoulder.
“He couldn’t have been more wrong,” Timothy said. “Sure, there are times when I wish I could run back to Patience and hide, but then I think about all I’d be giving up. My island home seems so … insignificant after seeing what exists beyond it.”
He felt a wave of emotion threaten to reduce him to tears, but held it temporarily at bay “You opened my eyes to wonders that existed beyond the doorway, Leander, and for that I will always love and miss you terribly.”
Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the man’s brow and climbed to his feet, still fighting to not be overpowered by grief. He felt Cassandra and Ivar’s concerned eyes on him, but only nodded to confirm that he would be all right.
Across the vast chamber, a tapestry adorned with the crest of the Order of Alhazred hung on the wall. Timothy went over and tore it down from the place where it had likely hung for centuries. As he crossed the room with the tapestry, he made a promise to himself that he would not suppress his grief forever, that he would give himself time to truly mourn the passing of his friend, but for the moment there were things to be dealt with that had to take priority over his anguish.
“Tim?” Cassandra asked. “Are you all right?”
“Not even close,” he said, draping the tapestry over Leander’s still form. “But now that the horror of Alhazred’s schemes is done with, I will be. Everything will be better now. It has to be. Leander died to make it so.”
He said a silent good-bye to Leander, then went to Ivar, whose face masked the pain he must have been in after the conflict with Alhazred. The dark wizard had drained some of Ivar’s spirit, and it would take time for him to recover. As a child on the Island of Patience, Ivar had been his friend, and as great a teacher to him then as Leander would later become. All his life his friends had looked out for him. Now it was time for Timothy to return the favor.
“Let’s get you to a healer,” Timothy said. “And then we need to let the others know what happened here today.”
Cassandra nodded in agreement, picking up the lantern from the floor to light their way up the stairs that led to a storage room where the secret passage to Alhazred’s hidden lair was first discovered.
Wurm War Page 1