Wurm War

by Christopher Golden

While he had been imprisoned in a dungeon cell in SkyHaven, his ability to cast magic taken from him by an inhibitor sphere, Arturo Grimshaw had come to the most horrific of realizations.

  He needed to become what he most despised.

  Now the former constable piloted the prison transport south, his arm, composed entirely of magic, manipulating the controls of the sky craft with ease, bending the spells that powered the airship to his will. The transport soared above the rich, dark green of the Yarrith Forest, and onward toward Tora’nah, and his new destiny as a creature of chaos.

  His entire life had been about the pursuit of order, and he was certain that this was why his master, Alhazred, had originally sought him out as a boy. The archmage saw in him the ability to do great things, to bend chaos to his will, and to bring about control. And that was exactly what he had done, first as a security officer and then by quickly moving up the ranks to become constable. The secret power of Alhazred had fueled his ambitions, and he had served the archmage well, but now his dark master was dead, and he felt his tenuous grasp on the order of his world slipping through his fingers.

  He had first felt this upon learning of the Cade boy—the un-magician—but had faith in his own abilities, and his dark master’s growing might. The freak of a boy would be only a minor irritant, dealt with swiftly.

  If only that had been the case.

  Grimshaw felt his entire body begin to tremble at the thought of the boy. How is it possible that this one child has been responsible for effecting so much change in the world? It’s almost as if young Cade is somehow the personification of chaos. A chill ran through him at the thought.

  He was unsure how much farther he had to travel, and conjured a map that floated in the air so that he could check his progress. His means of transport appeared as a bright red dot on the magical map, and Tora’nah as a star of yellow. It won’t be long now, he mused, estimating the distance in hours. Plenty of time to adjust his way of thinking to reflect the pandemonium that had infected the world.

  Alhazred was dead, and the Wurm had invaded. If there were any clear signs that chaos had taken control, this was the most obvious. Sitting within his cold, dark cell, stripped of all that defined him, Grimshaw had realized that he had to change in order to live. A pure creature of order could not survive a world in constant flux. No, he needed to become what he most hated.

  A creature of disorder, an enemy of harmony.

  A beast of chaos.

  And he could think of no one better to help him with his transformation than the leader of the Wurm invaders. He had much to share with the monsters. And if everything went according to plan, Raptus would have much to share with him.

  For the first time in his life, Ivar wished that he were riding inside a sky craft. He hated the unnatural feeling of confinement they gave him. But that confinement would have been preferable to his current situation.

  The Asura clung to the back of the prison transport, using all his focus to keep his grip firm. If he was not careful, the strong winds that buffeted him as the stolen transport flew south would tear him from his perch. As his fingers began to cramp and grow numb with the cold, Ivar was forced to wonder if he had made a fatal mistake.

  Yet there had been no choice. Grimshaw had been escaping, and Ivar could not bear the thought of a villain such as he going free. Blending with the surroundings so as not to be seen, Ivar had leaped onto the back of the ascending prison transport. Though not as sophisticated as the laws set down by the mages, the Asura had their own system of justice that had served them well in their day. It was elegantly simple. If one did wrong, than one was punished by a member of the tribe who had been designated as Lawgiver—the keeper of tribal law and order.

  As the last of his kind, he had no choice but to designate himself as Lawgiver, and swore, as he clung to back of the prison transport, that Grimshaw would not be allowed to hurt any of his friends—the tribe he had surrounded himself with—or perform any act of evil again.

  So said Ivar, last of the Asura.

  So said the Lawgiver.

  Cythra perched at the edge of the rooftop, stretching her leathery wings to their full span as she looked out over August Hill and at the sprawling metropolis of Arcanum below. It was obvious to Timothy that she was more comfortable here, less cramped.

  “He’ll want to see that in ruin,” she said, pointing a black claw at the spires of Arcanum twinkling in the distance.

  Her clan soared in the sky above, dipping and weaving and blowing fire at one another as they trained for the coming battle. They were a fearsome sight to behold, but a small voice in the back of Timothy’s mind continued to ask the question Will it be enough?

  Lord Romulus paced nervously about the rooftop, not at all comfortable in the presence of the female Wurm.

  “The foul beast will never be allowed to reach Arcanum,” he blustered, clasping his gauntleted hands behind his back and sticking out his broad, armored chest. “Our security forces are more than enough to repel any such attack. The Legion Nocturne alone will stop him. Raptus’s filth will never come north of my fortress at Twilight.”

  Something nagged at Timothy, an irritant of a question that refused to be quelled no matter how hard he tried. He could no longer hold his tongue.

  “Raptus isn’t stupid,” he blurted out.

  Cythra turned her large, horned head to look at him. Romulus glowered.

  “I was his captive for a while. This isn’t some reckless troublemaker without a plan.”

  “We are well aware of the danger posed by our enemy, boy,” Romulus said, his eyes blazing from black pools inside his helmet. The mage was a giant by any standard, at least ten feet tall, and the nearer Timothy got to him, the more intimidating Romulus was. He reached up to stroke the long hair of his beard. “It matters not at all. Our forces are superior. Even if our power and valor were not enough, our numbers would crush him.”

  It was Timothy’s turn to pace. Something continued to nag at him.

  “And that’s what I can’t understand.”

  “Explain yourself, Timothy,” Cythra asked, folding her wings against her back, eyes narrow with worry.

  “He would know that he couldn’t win,” the boy said. “How many soldiers does he have? Two hundred? Maybe three hundred if you count the laborers from Draconae, plus a handful of Wurm sorcerers. He’ll either have left the families back in Draconae or resettled them in Tora’nah, but he won’t have them fighting. The children and the aged, young mothers—they won’t be part of the attack against us. So let us say three hundred. What chance would they have against a city of hundreds of thousands of mages? Not to mention the other settlements they will have to conquer just to get to Arcanum. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  The sound of Romulus chuckling filled the air like the growl of a hungry predator. “Isn’t it obvious to you both?” he asked them. “Raptus is mad. His hate for the mages of Terra has made him irrational. It would not be the first time that a tyrant infected with the disease of insanity has waged an impossible war against a much larger and more powerful foe.”

  “The boy is right,” Cythra said in a hushed whisper, twin streams of hissing steam flowing up from her nostrils. “I have known Raptus since he was a hatchling—we grew up together—were even friends in the early days of our youth. He has never been a fool.”

  Romulus moved closer to them. “What are the two of you suggesting?” he asked, caution in his low, grumbling tone.

  Timothy sighed, not caring for the direction his thoughts were taking him. “It’s just that I can’t imagine that he would invade Terra without some kind of plan. Some way that would guarantee a victory.”

  And as those words left his lips, he heard a sharp intake of air from Cythra that could only have been a gasp of shock.

  “What is it, Cythra?” he asked, imagining that he saw a look of fear in the dark, watery eyes of Verlis’s mate. “What did I say?”

  “All this talk of Raptus has stirred the flam
es of remembrance,” she said. “Even as a youth, his hate for the mages knew no bounds. His nature was scarred by the death of his father before his hatching.”

  Romulus crossed his arms and grumbled in frustration. “What has this to do with now?”

  Cythra ignored the petulant attitude of the leader of the Legion Nocturne, lost in memories of days gone by. “Even as a child his thoughts did not stray from the idea of revenge, and how he would eventually achieve it. But Raptus was also obsessed with the legends of the Dragons of Old. There was one particular legend that he often talked about. It was said that the dragons feared the growing power of the wizards with whom they shared this world. The dragons feared that there would come a day when their kind would be no more.”

  Romulus threw his hand up in frustration, bellowing at the heavens. “We have no time for myths and legends! Our enemy moves against us!”

  Timothy cast an angry eye toward the Grandmaster. “Please, Lord Romulus, be patient,” the boy snapped. “Go on, Cythra. We’re listening.”

  “With their ancient sorcery, legend claims that the dragons created a horrible weapon, an egg.”

  Timothy frowned. “They created an egg … as a weapon? I don’t—”

  “Not just any egg,” Cythra explained, leaning in closer to make sure he understood the importance of what it was she was saying. “They called it the Spawn of Wrath, and inside its shell seethed the fury, rage, and fear of all dragonkind. A power that, if consumed, could bestow upon the eater unspeakable might.”

  The Wurm pulled her wings tightly around her, as if suddenly cold. “Raptus often spoke of one day having his vengeance. There were other ideas he had to achieve that end, but he returned to the tale of the Spawn of Wrath more than any other. I paid no mind to his rambling, for it was only a legend, after all.”

  “Precisely!” Romulus snarled. “It is a thing of legend—of myth. It doesn’t exist.”

  Timothy felt a chill pass through him, and he gnawed his lower lip. “But what if it does?”

  Cythra shrugged her broad shoulders. “It was said that the Spawn was buried with the Queen, hidden with her body in the final resting place of the dragons.”

  “Tora’nah,” Timothy whispered, a claw of fear gripping at his chest.

  The Wurm nodded. “If it does exist, that is where it would be found.”

  “And if he does find it?” Romulus asked. “What then? What can we do to defend ourselves?”

  Cythra did not answer, turning her gaze up to the members of her tribe that flew above their heads. She spread her wings, leaping up into the sky to join them in flight.

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  Chapter Five

  A cold rain had started to fall over the burial ground, almost as if the Dragons of Old were crying tears of joy over what he had found. Raptus could not pull his gaze from his prize—from the Spawn of Wrath. It was exactly as he believed, not only a thing of legend, but of the physical world. It existed—in all its wondrous glory. And now, it belonged to him.

  Through the shell of the great egg he felt the thrum of ancient power, waiting to be unleashed.

  “Do you see it, Hannuk?” Raptus asked. “In my hands, I hold the future.”

  The old Wurm recoiled as the general held the egg out to him, almost as if he could sense the power roiling inside the fragile shell, and was terrified by it.

  “How is this possible?” Hannuk asked, his rough voice now an awe-filled whisper. “In all my years I never would have believed that it could be true.”

  Raptus held the Spawn of Wrath all the higher, showing it to all his soldiers, who had gathered at his request.

  “Look upon its magnificence and believe!” he bellowed. The rain began to fall harder, and he was certain that many present didn’t understand the full ramifications of the prize. The legends of the ancients were practically forgotten by the younger generations of Wurm, but he would teach them—show them the extent of its ancient might.

  The survivors of the mining operation had been gathered as well, corralled together, their heads bowed in a pathetic mixture of defeat and fear. Raptus moved toward them, his prize held out before him. He wanted them to see the object of their eventual destruction.

  “Do you see, mages?” he asked as he held the Spawn out to them. Most raised their heads, eyes fixing on the egg. Steam rose from its smooth, yellow surface as the rain landed on it. “This was created because of you—because of the fear and the disloyalty you inspire, and the misery and pain you bring. You have done this.”

  They stood silently, their faces covered in dirt, ash, and blood. Yet there was a low rustle of voices in the air. At first he thought the whispering came from somewhere behind him, and he whirled around to listen. But then Raptus realized that the voices were coming from the egg—the Spawn was speaking to him.

  And Raptus listened.

  The collected rage and fear of his ancestors spoke to him, thousands upon thousands of ghostly voices clamoring to fill his skull. The egg started to vibrate, a pulsing glow beginning to emanate from within. And the dead continued to chatter and wail, every detail of the indignities suffered by the ancient species at the hands of the mages pouring into his head.

  His own rage was fed by the rabid emotions of the ancients, and he thought he would explode. Raptus began to tremble and the egg to vibrate. It seemed to be growing larger in his hands, and he almost cried out, but he found that his tongue was paralyzed and his eyes were locked on the yellowed surface of the Spawn of Wrath.

  It was almost too much for him to bear, and he attempted to release the egg, to let it drop—and likely shatter upon the sacred ground of Tora’nah—but it would not let him. It was as if his hands had become part of the Spawn’s surface, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not be free of it. Raw, razor-sharp emotions flowed through his body like the most powerful of magical spells, and he was assaulted on every sensory level, driven nearly to the brink of madness.

  Raptus was certain that he was about to die, that the frenzied emotions of the Dragons of Old were so starved for revenge that their eagerness would snuff out his life. He could sense his soldiers watching him, not sure what they should do. He wanted to cry out for any of them to relieve him of this horrific burden. But the dragons would not allow it. There was so much they had to tell him.

  It was too much to bear, and it drove him to his knees. Still he held on to his prize—a prize that had unexpectedly become a curse. He felt his sense of self slowly slipping away. All that remained was a primitive, snarling beast, an animal that would do anything to survive.

  Raptus tossed back his head, roaring up into the storm-filled skies, before bringing his mouth down, biting into the shell of the Spawn of Wrath. He felt the surface of the Spawn crack, heard the shrieks and wails of the ghostly voices trapped within cry out all the louder, as if excited by his attack. Again and again the tyrant bit down upon the hard surface of the Spawn, as more and more fractures appeared in its yellowed shell.

  Then he snapped his jaws closed in a final, tremendous bite, an attack that would have snapped bone and torn sinew. The shell shattered, exposing the roiling contents of the Spawn of Wrath, bathing Raptus in the collected hatred of a race long gone. It enveloped him, crawling inside the warmth of his body to make itself at home.

  Raptus shrieked a cry of the damned as magical energies merged with his body, flowing out from his talons to strike at the burial ground on which he stood. And as the magic of the ancient dragons touched it, the ground began to bubble and froth as though it were liquid.

  He spread his wings and took to the sky, feeling the presence of the dragons in every aspect of his body—filling him up with unbridled fury, making him thirst for the opportunity to reap his revenge—their revenge at last.

  Everything is different now, he thought as he soared above the human excavation at Tora’nah. Before, he would dream of possessing a power that would allow him to see his enemies vanquished, and now that had been realized an
d the power belonged to him.

  Raptus came to a halt above the gathered mages, his powerful wings pounding the air with mighty beats to keep himself aloft. He stared down at them, studying each and every one. He wanted to remember them, the first to fall before the unbridled fury joined to his own.

  “You are but the first,” he roared, the bubbling of liquid fire percolating in his chest before his mouth opened, and the flames, fueled by his own wrath and the wrath of dead dragons, came forth to reduce the human prisoners to ash.

  Raptus then dropped from the sky to kneel among the still-smoldering remains of his vanquished enemy. He furled his wings, hearing the sound of someone approaching behind him.

  “General Raptus,” Hannuk said with caution. “Are you … are you well?”

  And Raptus turned to look upon his second in command with new eyes.

  A conqueror’s eyes.

  “Hannuk, dear friend,” he growled, fresh fire bubbling in his throat. “I’ve never been better.”

  The two young Wurm were chasing him again.

  Edgar flew swiftly down the long, first-floor corridor, looking for someplace to hide from the mischievous youngsters. He knew that they were only playing, but their playing often had a tendency to get a little rough, and he had the singed tail feathers to show for it.

  Ahead he could see that the door to Argus Cade’s study hung partway open, and he breathed a sigh of relief, flapping his wings all the harder for that extra burst of speed to get to his oasis of safety more quickly. Angling his body in such a way as to fit, the rook soared through the opening, stomach and back feathers gently brushing against the door and frame.

  “Better lay off the sweets,” he grumbled.

  Edgar fluttered around the study and went back to the door. Touching down in front of the opening, he could hear the sound of the young Wurm’s approach. He placed his side against the wood and gave it a push. The door shut, and the black bird breathed a sigh of relief. He heard their playful laughter as they went past the door, wondering aloud where he had hidden. In moments the sounds receded. They would eventually tire of searching for him or something else would distract them. Wurm children had very short attention spans.