Wurm War

by Christopher Golden

  Left alone in the study, Edgar spread his wings and launched himself upward to land atop the desk that had once belonged to his master, Argus Cade. It was strange to see it uncluttered. When Argus was alive, it had always been laden with scrolls and mystical artifacts. As the familiar to Argus Cade—companion, servant, messenger, and confidant—Edgar had felt privileged to know a mage with such honor and such brilliance. Now he had the pleasure of serving his former master’s son.

  Most familiars passed on with the death of their masters, but something had kept Edgar in the world. Perhaps Argus had arranged for it, or perhaps it was simply his purpose.

  The bird hopped about the desktop, remembering earlier times. He missed Argus Cade terribly. It was the first time since the archmage’s death that he had actually had the opportunity to reminisce about his old friend. He wondered what Argus would have thought of how much things had changed since Timothy stepped out of Patience: the fall of Nicodemus, the coming of Verlis and his tribe, the revelation that Alhazred was still alive, and now the Wurm invasion.

  Edgar shivered, ruffling his feathers. It was enough to make a sane bird go entirely mad. It had been one crisis after another, and the rook wondered what new obstacle could possibly be waiting over the next horizon.

  As if on cue, he smelled something in the air: a peculiar scent, sharp, yet oddly sweet. It was an odor that Edgar had not experienced since …

  In a corner of the study bordered by bookcases, the air began to distort, to shimmer and quake as something began to manifest.

  “Here we go again,” the rook whispered, transfixed to the sight of the dimensional doorway opening in the study of Argus Cade, providing some unknown intruder passage from someplace else—to here.

  Edgar braced as the vortex of magic opened in the air, a blast of cold air and snow from the other side of the rift nearly knocking him from his perch atop the desk. Lifting a wing, he shielded his eyes from the blowing ice and snow, attempting to discern the shapes that were exiting from the magical rip torn in time and space.

  Carefully he hopped toward the edge of the desk, closer to the study door. If necessary, he could make a quick dash to the door, get it open and warn Timothy and the others that they were in danger. If necessary, but something told the bird it wouldn’t be the case.

  They emerged from the dimensional portal, trembling figures clad in snow-covered armor, spilling into the warmth of the deceased mage’s study. Edgar’s suspicions as to who they were, and how they came to be in Argus Cade’s study, were confirmed as the last of the armored figures stumbled from the portal floating in the air, followed by the large, bestial shape of Verlis.

  Edgar experienced a wave of relief upon seeing his friend. They’d had no idea what had happened to him when Alhazred’s Divide had fallen, and Raptus and his army had entered the world. It was good to see that he was safe, and that other members of the Tora’nah expedition had made it out safely as well. There were eight so far, and Edgar craned his neck from his perch to see if any more would follow Verlis into the room.

  But there didn’t seem to be any others.

  The Wurm turned toward the whirlpool of magic, his fingers moving in the air before it, closing down the entryway.

  The dimensional rip sealed with a thunderous clap, and Edgar took flight from the desk to glide around his friend’s head.

  “Verlis! Glad to see you in one piece,” Edgar croaked. “Your family kept saying they were sure they would have known if you were dead, that you must still be alive, but I don’t think Tim believed them.”

  Verlis looked at him then, his eyes filled with intensity.

  “Take me to him,” the Wurm said gravely. “Our darkest fears have come true. Bring me to Timothy at once.”

  It never seems to slow down, Edgar thought as he flew from the study, Verlis and the workers of Tora’nah following behind. From one thing to the next.

  The life of a familiar. It’s exhausting.

  They had all crammed into the kitchen.

  Timothy busied himself at the stove he had modified using a combination of heatstone and hungry fire as opposed to magic. He was eager to help the blacksmiths, volunteering to heat a large pot of spiced brew to drive the chill from their frozen bones.

  Now he turned away from the stove. It would be a moment longer before the water had boiled enough to make the drinks, and he took the time to survey the gathering. The kitchen was large by all standards, but it strained to hold all who were present at the moment.

  The blacksmiths and miners sat with Walter Telford around the large kitchen table, blankets taken from the many rooms in the Cade estate draped over their shoulders. Timothy had been glad to see that Walter and the smiths had survived, but very disheartened by the fact that there had not been more. The thought of all the others who had not lived through Raptus’s attack filled him with sadness, and he continued to look about the crowded kitchen in an attempt to distract himself.

  Lord Romulus stood by the door, arms folded across his barrel chest. Timothy found it amusing that the Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne had to bend his head ever so slightly so that the horns of his helmet did not scratch the kitchen ceiling.

  Verlis and Cythra huddled close in the far corner of the room. It was obvious to Tim that the couple was quite pleased to be in each other’s company again. It was one ray of light in these dark times.

  Edgar and Sheridan stood vigilantly by his side, as they always did. He could ask for friends no better than these.

  The large pot of water over the hungry flame on the stove began to boil, and Timothy turned away from the silent gathering to prepare the spiced beverage. “This should just take a minute,” he said, picking up a glass jar of rich-smelling spices and herbs and dumping all the contents into the frothing water.

  “Let me assist you with that,” Sheridan said, sidling toward him and gently pushing him away. “You have much more important things to concern yourself with.”

  Timothy started to protest, but knew that his mechanical friend was right. There was no avoiding it any longer. They needed to discuss the approaching war.

  “First of all,” he began, looking around at the gathering, “let me say how glad I am that you made it back.”

  Sheridan had begun to disperse the cups of brew, offering the first to Walter Telford. The mage thanked the mechanical man and, shrugging off his blanket, rose to his feet. He held the mug in his hands and gazed around at the seven men and women who had survived the invasion of Tora’nah with him.

  “It’s good to be alive,” he said, his voice choked with emotion as he made eye contact with all of the three miners and four blacksmiths who had fought at his side. “But I propose a toast to those who weren’t so lucky,” he said as he raised his steaming mug. “And for those who will risk so much in the coming conflict.”

  The cups of brew had all been handed out and Timothy watched as all those gathered in the room—Wurm and grandmaster alike—lifted their cups in solidarity.

  “For all who have sacrificed, and those who will sacrifice, we salute you,” Telford said.

  In grave silence they drank to the dead and the daring.

  “Excuse me,” Edgar croaked from a nearby shelf, his head cocked to one side quizzically. “But why does it feel like we’ve already fought this war and lost?”

  Everyone looked startled, glancing about at one another, and Timothy thanked the bird with the slightest of nods. Edgar’s curt admonition was exactly what they all needed.

  “The bird is right,” Romulus said, setting his cup down. Officially he was here as an ambassador from the Parliament of Mages, but Timothy was pleased to see that he seemed to be growing comfortable in this group. “Yes, these are dire times, but there is still hope—still a battle to be fought.”

  Verlis exhaled a hissing cloud of steam and shook his head nervously. “But the Spawn of Wrath—if that is indeed what Raptus was searching for—how can we oppose such power?”

  Timothy set his cup
down on the table. All eyes were suddenly on him. “We oppose it the only way we know how,” he said. “By using every resource we have available to us.”

  He continued to look about the room, at all who had gathered there.

  “We fight them with the magic of all the guilds in Parliament, not just combat mages, but every single person who can stand against them. We fight them with Malleum armor forged by Terra’s finest blacksmiths,” he said, pointing out Walter and his people. He then turned his attention to Verlis and Cythra. “And with the ferocity of your clan.”

  They were all staring at him now, their eyes sparking with what he imagined to be hope. “We fight them together.”

  Beneath the medicine-soaked wrappings, Cassandra Nicodemus’s delicate fingertips, burned from the excessive use of defensive magic, throbbed uncomfortably. She sat in the back of the traveling sky carriage with Carlyle beside her and looked at her hands. She’d never imagined having to use her magical talents in such a violent fashion, and here she was, striking out with such unbridled fury that she had actually burned the skin of her fingertips. Her combat with the creature her grandfather had become, and then her attempts at halting Grimshaw’s escape, flashed through her mind, and it all seemed so wild, so unlike the life she was used to.

  “Do they bother you, mistress?” Carlyle asked, and she blinked, having barely heard the question.

  “Your fingers,” he said, nodding toward her still upraised hands. “Do they pain you?”

  Slowly she returned her injured hands to her lap, gazing out the window of the carriage as they flew over the vast city of Arcanum toward Xerxis. “A little, but they’ll be fine in time.”

  “It takes time and strict discipline to learn to wield combat magic on that scale without injury,” Carlyle said, glancing casually into his schedule book as he spoke.

  “I’m well aware of that, thank you,” she answered, annoyed at this discussion of what she thought of as her inadequacies.

  “Perhaps, once this is all over, and things have returned to some semblance of order … I could teach you,” the former combat mage said haltingly, careful in case he should unintentionally insult her.

  Instead Cassandra was touched by the offer. Carlyle was as fussy and self-important a man as she had ever met, but she had recently discovered this other side of him. He cared far too much for rules and propriety, but his history as a combat mage revealed that there was more to him than that. It was kind of him to offer to help her learn.

  “I’d like that very much,” she said, turning away from the view of the city to meet his gaze. “I’m certain there is a great deal I could learn from you.”

  Carlyle seemed pleased, but once again he glanced down to check the documents he carried. “It would be helpful, I think. As Grandmaster you will need to master all forms of magic, defensive as well as offensive.”

  Cassandra might have replied, but in that moment the Xerxis came into view far below, and any response died on her lips. She was always breathless at the majesty of the headquarters of the Parliament, particularly its central spire. The tower was a marvel, formed by four beams that curved halfway up, twisting in upon themselves so that the tower grew narrower and narrower. It was the oldest structure in all of Arcanum, and it never failed to inspire her. Even as a child, looking at pictographs of the ancient city, the home of the Parliament of Mages was always her personal favorite; and here she was, Grandmaster of one of the most powerful magical orders, the Xerxis now part of her day-to-day life—and now temporarily to become her home.

  She smiled at the thought despite the heaviness of the mood.

  “Carlyle, do you think I made the right decision?”

  Her assistant glanced up, brow knitted. “You mean relocating essential personnel from SkyHaven to the Xerxis?”

  For a moment her attention was caught by the view out the window. She saw six more sky carriages spread out in the air around their own, all of them carrying Order of Alhazred acolytes and security staff. Then she glanced at Carlyle and nodded.

  “I hated the idea of leaving SkyHaven,” he said with obvious sincerity. “But with all the troubles we’ve had there of late—secret chambers, mages long thought dead still alive, the entire structure nearly falling from the sky into the ocean, and Grimshaw’s escape to the south—we cannot guarantee that the fortress is secure. Grimshaw could lead Raptus right to SkyHaven.” Carlyle nodded. “So yes, I think you’ve made the correct choice.”

  “I hope Ivar is all right,” she said worriedly, glancing out the carriage window again as the craft began its descent to the landing zone of the Xerxis plaza.

  “The Asura is quite formidable. I suspect he can take care of himself.”

  Cassandra hoped he was right. One of the Parliament guards patrolling the landing zone came over to open her door and she climbed from her transport.

  “The Voice is awaiting your arrival with the other members of Parliament, Grandmaster,” the guard said with a courteous bow.

  “Excellent.”

  “I’ve also been instructed to show your staff to their temporary quarters,” the man added.

  She looked to Carlyle, now standing by her side. “Go along with them, please, and make sure that they’re settled. I’ll be along whenever the meeting finishes.”

  “Very good, mistress,” Carlyle said, going to meet the rest of the transplanted SkyHaven staff as their sky carriages landed.

  Cassandra watched him for a moment, wondering how it had all come to this. The days when simple politics and betrayal among the guilds were the worst things they had to worry about were long behind them. At length she turned and allowed the guard to escort her through the front door of the Xerxis.

  Two more sentries awaited her there, a woman and a man, each of them bowing as she passed beneath the large archway into the foyer. They touched two fingers to their foreheads, then to their hearts in salute.

  “Grandmaster Nicodemus,” they said in unison. “Kind thoughts on this most troubling of days.”

  “On this and all days,” she responded with a short bow.

  The female sentry motioned with her arm for Cassandra to pass and she did so, following the long corridor to the large parliamentary chamber at its end. She heard the commotion even before she entered, voices raised in heated discussion.

  She entered the vast, circular chamber and caught sight of Alethea Borgia, Grandmaster of the Tantrus Order and reigning Voice of Parliament, standing on the dais in the center. All around her was chaos, the chatter almost deafening. The room was the heart of the Xerxis, and its walls went all the way up to the apex of the tower itself. The grandmasters of Parliament, raging in argument, played havoc with the room’s acoustics.

  Cassandra walked down an aisle into the room, approaching the center stage and the Voice.

  Alethea turned her eyes from the commotion to take notice of her arrival. The Voice appeared much older somehow than the last time Cassandra had seen her.

  “Welcome to Parliament, Grandmaster Nicodemus,” the Voice said, gesturing toward the commotion with no small irony.

  Cassandra glanced around her at the chaos in the room. She had been to only a few of the parliamentary gatherings, but they had never been like this. “What … what’s happening?”

  The Voice laughed sadly. “This is what we have come to,” she said with a shake of her head. “I could control them no longer. Their passions have gotten the better of them, and they no longer seem to remember that they are supposed to be above such behavior, shining examples to the world in which we live. I thought rather than steal their voices away yet again, I ought to let them bluster until they’re tired of it themselves.”

  Cassandra watched as the other grandmasters ranted and raved, and suddenly felt very, very afraid for the world in which she lived. “What has divided them so?”

  “Foolishness. Though the danger has been shown to them, some still do not believe in the threat of the Wurm.” The silver-haired woman looked to Cassandra,
her eyes filled with intensity. “Some actually believe it to be some sort of conspiracy put in motion by the Cade boy in order to turn us against one another.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  Cassandra was furious; how dare they act this way in a time of crisis? She was about to demand that they stop acting like children, when a booming voice filled the chamber.

  “Brothers and sisters of Parliament, I bring you grave news!”

  From an entrance at the back of the chamber, a man stumbled toward them. His clothing was in tatters and appeared to be burned in places.

  “Who?” she whispered, not realizing that she had spoken aloud.

  “A parliamentary scout,” the Voice replied. “I sent him to the south, along with four others, to verify the existence of the Wurm threat.”

  The man stumbled toward them, falling to his knee before the Voice. Cassandra could see a look of terror in his eyes as he gazed about the room. The chamber was abuzz, the appearance of the scout enough to distract those who had been locked in raging arguments mere seconds before.

  “What is it?” the Voice inquired. “Share what you have seen so that we may all come to understand the danger we face.”

  The man grabbed his head as if in agony. “It was horrible…” He gasped. “From Tora’nah they are advancing … the Wurm are traveling north … traveling toward Arcanum!”

  Lord Foxheart, Grandmaster of the Malleus Guild, left his seat, stepping into the aisle so that he might be noticed, his ratlike features contorted with disdain and anger. “What proof do you have, other than your word?”

  The room again erupted into frenzy, but Lord Foxheart quickly silenced them. “The Malleus Guild headquarters in Taboluth is located northeast of Tora’nah and as of now, I have heard nothing of this Wurm advancement.”

  The scout rose to his feet, face lined with fear. “It’s not there anymore!” he cried, grabbing his head again as if to keep it from breaking apart.