He admired the towers and battlements of Twilight as they came to a landing, and forced himself to think only of today’s enemy, and to forget yesterday’s.
Black smoke rose from the ruins of the settlement of the Lake Dwellers, drifting across the sky like the dying exhalations of a thunderstorm. The stilted huts that had been built rising up out of the lake had burned and collapsed into the water, leaving charred posts jutting from the surface. Of the houses that lined the lake, however, nothing remained but embers and smoke.
And most of the Lake Dwellers were little more than ash and bone.
Grimshaw stood on the lakeshore and stared at the smoking ruin, much of it still glowing with dying fire. Perhaps two dozen Wurm flew overhead, circling the lake and the destroyed settlement. Raptus had sent at least that number north and westward as scouts. The rest of his army were spread out around the lake. Some of them were bathing in the water, some were resting, some were simply talking low among themselves about their triumphant march across Sunderland.
The others were herding prisoners.
The Lake Dwellers who had been in the water or on the shore at the time of the attack had escaped the immolation of those who had been indoors and had suffered the rain of fire from the Wurm. Some of them had tried to fight. Those had been attacked more directly. The Wurm all had rudimentary magic, and the Lake Dwellers were no more skilled, but when the dragonkin swooped down from the skies with their jaws wide and talons slashing, the Lake Dwellers had stood no chance. It had been a massacre.
The few Wurm sorcerers had remained in the sky, watching over the entire proceedings, as though they wished to conserve their strength for more important battles ahead. It was good strategy. Precisely what Grimshaw would have done.
But he would not have slaughtered the Lake Dwellers. They had been his allies and faithful servants of Alhazred. He looked forward to seeing the same sort of carnage visited upon the Parliament of Mages, even the entire city of Arcanum. The fools had betrayed him and succumbed to the influence of the accursed Timothy Cade.
The stump of his severed arm itched. The magic that he could manifest into a new arm, a purplish black tentacle of arcane power, always made the scar tissue there tingle. The Parliament had stood by and watched the Wurm, Verlis, bite that arm off at the command of the Cade boy, and they had done nothing. Grimshaw had been the one punished.
He wanted vengeance on them for the insult and for their stupidity. But he had never wished for his allies by the lake to come to an end as horrible as this. Grimshaw set his jaw, grinding his teeth, as he watched the remaining Lake Dwellers pushed together in a group in the midst of the carnage and wreckage of their encampment. The Wurm seemed to be enjoying their role as shepherds, belching gouts of fire or slicing the air with their talons if any of the Lake Dwellers tried to resist.
Out on the lake, perched on a charred and blackened beam from the home of the Lake Dwellers’ chief, was General Raptus.
Grimshaw didn’t want to look at him. Something was happening to Raptus and he found it extremely troubling. The Wurm general seemed to be growing, easily twice the size of the smaller Wurm. His helmet had barely fit him and he’d had to crack it off like a milknut shell. And the magic … Grimshaw could feel the enchantment emanating from him, could practically smell it in the air around the maniacal tyrant. Raptus was not merely their general, he was somehow different from the other Wurm.
He was changing.
Grimshaw found it unsettling.
One of the Lake Dwellers cried out in anguish and rushed at the Wurm soldiers who were prodding and mocking him. He tried to summon a defensive spell but it was pathetic. A pair of Wurm—two females—spewed liquid flame and burned him to tatters.
The commotion drew Raptus’s attention. Out on the lake, he turned to look toward the survivors and then spread his wings. His wingspan was almost twice his height, and Grimshaw felt his heart clutch with real, primal fear. Raptus flew the short distance to shore and alighted on the ground, then marched toward where his soldiers herded the surviving Lake Dwellers. He glanced into the sky as though to assure himself nothing was amiss, saw his warriors still flying their circular pattern, and then turned his attention once more to the simple mages of the lake.
But he would not speak to them. Instead he turned and beckoned. “Grimshaw!” he called. “Come here!”
Grimshaw could do nothing but obey He had allied himself with this monster and he would not allow himself to regret it. Whatever losses were suffered along the way, whatever blood had to be shed, whatever trust had to be broken, it would be worth it to see his vengeance fall in blood and fire upon Arcanum.
He lifted his chin defiantly and strode over to join Raptus.
Some of the Lake Dwellers recognized him and began shouting out to him to save them, to do something, but others saw him for what he was and spat filthy names at him, full of venom and hate. He was a traitor, after all.
“Tell me once more, Grimshaw,” Raptus said, not bothering to look at the one-armed mage but instead gazing at his prisoners. “To the north?”
With a sigh Grimshaw nodded. They had been over this many times, discussed all of Arcanum’s defenses, the number of guilds, which of the guilds would likely be willing to fight and which would be foolish enough not to take the threat seriously until it was too late.
“Arcanum is still quite a ways away, General. The next settlement to the north is that of the Legion Nocturne. Their grandmaster, Lord Romulus, is a mighty warrior, but he is arrogant. He considers his city and the lands around it an empire, though it’s hardly large enough to have been called a kingdom in days of old. Still, if Parliament wishes to mount any defense before you reach the city of Arcanum itself, it will likely come from there. Romulus will gather what forces he can—which could be considerable—and attempt to destroy you.”
Raptus’s leathery flesh was swollen beneath his armor, which had cracked in several places from the pressure of his growth. He nodded his enormous head, yellow eyes thoughtful.
“And the Parliament?”
Grimshaw sneered. “They don’t trust one another enough to mount a truly coordinated defense of an entire city.”
If the Wurm could smile, he thought that might explain the strange twist of Raptus’s lips, the baring of fangs, the narrowing of the eyes. Then the tyrant turned and gestured toward the surviving Lake Dwellers.
“And these? You’d said they were once your allies.”
“Once,” Grimshaw agreed.
“Have you no loyalty to them now?”
Grimshaw stood straighter, raised his chin higher, and from the stump of his severed arm emerged that purplish black tentacle of magic that formed itself into a replacement limb, a fist of hatred and sorcery.
“I care only for vengeance now, General Raptus. And my only loyalty is to he who can deliver that vengeance to me.”
Raptus spread his wings, turning so swiftly that Grimshaw cried out and staggered back, the dark magic of his sorcerous arm splitting instinctively into several tentacles to protect himself. But the tyrant was not attacking Grimshaw.
With a roar like the earth splitting, Raptus opened his jaws and a torrent of liquid fire rushed out, incinerating the surviving Lake Dwellers where they stood. The other Wurm who had been guarding them only stepped back and watched as their leader murdered their prisoners. Some of them tried to flee, only to fall in flames.
Grimshaw watched in horror. Soon only scorched bones remained.
Raptus made a chuffing noise that might have been laughter. “Well,” he said, “it’s a good thing you had no loyalty to them, isn’t it?”
Hatred brewed in Grimshaw, and he wanted to lash out at Raptus, but his hate for the Parliament and the Cade boy was even more powerful, and so he did not strike.
“Silence?” Raptus said, turning to look down on him. “Ah, well, a little silence from you will be most welcome.”
Even as he completed his insult, Raptus grunted in pain. He winced as
a spasm passed through him, and then a low moan burbled up from inside his chest, fire gushing from his nostrils. Grimshaw frowned, wondering what was happening, but before he could even ask, Raptus doubled over in agony and let out a roar, clutching his stomach.
“My bones!” he shouted.
“General!” said one of his soldiers, rushing toward him.
Raptus swept out a hand and knocked the Wurm sprawling to the ground. “Keep away!” he roared.
Then, with a sound like daggers tearing flesh and hammers breaking bones, he began to grow. The previous size increase had been slow and invisible to the naked eye, taking place over hours. Not now. They all stood and watched in astonishment as Raptus screamed and spasmed and stretched—and grew. His crimson armor shattered and fell to the blackened soil in pieces.
When the growth had subsided, Grimshaw guessed his height at more than twenty feet.
“General? How … how is this possible?” he asked.
This time he was certain that chuffing sound was laughter. Raptus looked down at him, and Grimshaw could see the utter madness in his eyes, the lunacy brought on by pain and hatred.
“There it is again,” Raptus sneered. “That voice, like the buzz of an insect in my ear. I thank you for your insights and your secrets, Grimshaw. But I have no further use for you. I can assure you that the Parliament of Mages will suffer.”
Grimshaw’s eyes went wide. He began to stagger backward. He raised his arms and tried to shield himself. Tentacles of black magic lunged at the gigantic Wurm.
Raptus opened his maw, lava spilling over his fangs and searing the ground.
Then the fire came.
It was the last thing Arturo Grimshaw ever saw.
And from the forest, his flesh blending with the colors of the trees, Ivar watched Grimshaw die. He had arrived only moments ago and borne witness to the last of the carnage.
Silent, invisible, he turned to the north and began to run.
The attack on Twilight came at dawn the next day. It had been a long, restless night for the troops, camped on the river and on both sides of the wall. The children of the Legion Nocturne and the infirm had been evacuated north to Arcanum, so within the sprawling city built into the mountainside there were only warriors. Sentries were placed upon watchtowers and scouts were sent up to the top of the mountain and across the lands. The Wurm invaders could not reach Twilight without being seen and the sentries would sound a horn that would warn of impending attack. They could sleep in shifts.
Still, Timothy spent a restless night as a guest of Lord Romulus. The moon was bright in the sky outside his window, and each cloud that drifted across it felt to him like the shadow of Raptus himself. He had been in the clutches of the tyrant before—a prisoner on Draconae—and he knew there would be no mercy. Memories of the cruelty in Raptus’s eyes, the brutal power of the monster beneath that crimson armor, were etched in his mind.
The night passed with excruciating slowness and though he slipped into sleep from time to time, he would be quickly awakened by a noise in the fortress or outside at the base of the mountain, where the mages gathered to await the war. At last, an hour or so before dawn, exhaustion overcame him, and he was dragged down into a sound, dreamless sleep.
It was not the horns that woke him. Not the rattling of armor and weapons or the shouts of alarm from outside. Timothy would have slept through all of that, if not for Edgar.
The rook cawed and cried, flying about the room.
Timothy’s eyelids fluttered open, and he saw that the sky was lightening from black to rich blue, the sun only hinting at the coming day. It took him a moment of staring stupidly at the panicked rook before he actually heard Edgar’s words.
“The horn!” the bird snapped. “Get up, Tim! They’ve sounded the horn! The Wurm are here! It’s happening now! Get up!”
Then all the other sounds flooded in. He heard the mournful sound of the warning horns echoing across the mountain fortress and the shouts of mages in preparation. Out in the corridor boots hammered stone, as combat mages of the Legion Nocturne raced outside to take up their positions.
A fist pounded on the door to Timothy’s room.
The boy felt his heart thundering in his chest in time with those running footfalls and the pounding on the door. He sprang from the bed and pulled on his boots. He’d slept fully clothed so as to be prepared for attack.
“I’m coming!” Timothy cried in response to the banging at his door.
Edgar still flew in circles, as though he could not pause, and the boy knew how he felt. There would be no rest now. Not until this was over.
“Caw!” Edgar cried. “I don’t know what you’re doing here! The Wurm aren’t mages. Magic won’t hurt you, but their talons and their fire will!”
Timothy hesitated at the door, staring at him. “Edgar, don’t. We’ve had this discussion. You said yourself this war concerns everyone. If I can be of any help at all, I have to be here.”
Black feathers fluttering, the rook hovered a moment. “You’re your father’s son.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Timothy said, and he threw open the door.
Walter Telford stood in the corridor. He was grim faced and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. In his hands he held a shirt of silver chain mail and a sword in a gleaming scabbard. Across his back was slung a metal shield.
Timothy frowned. “Walter, what—”
“Hurry and dress in this, Timothy. There isn’t time for questions.”
The boy took the chain mail shirt and studied it, astonished. “Is this Malleum? It must have taken forever to make something so intricate.”
Telford nodded. “Scraps, son, left over from the forging of all the rest of the armor. We collected it as we went and crafted this for you. This world has been cruel to you, Timothy, and those at the Forge wanted you to realize there is a place for you. You may be unique, but you are a brilliant and courageous boy. We hope to help keep you safe if we can.”
Timothy was so touched that he could barely breathe. He slipped the chain mail shirt on and then took the sword and shield that Telford offered him. “But … this isn’t right, Walter. You and your people—you mined and forged all these things—but you fight with iron instead of Malleum. I shouldn’t have this if you can’t be protected as well.”
Telford smiled. “Then protect us, Timothy.”
The boy’s throat went dry. “I’m no warrior. Not really. Ivar taught me hand-to-hand combat, but against the Wurm—”
The mage tapped him on the head. “A warrior uses more than his hands. Now let’s go. The horn sounded minutes ago. The Wurm will be here any—”
Outside there came a new volley of shouting but there was a different tone to the combat mages’ voices now. Timothy heard the hum and sizzle of spells being cast.
“They’re here!” Edgar shouted.
The rook flew along the corridor to a high arched stone window and settled on the sill. Telford and Timothy ran after him. Streams of fire began to rain from above, and as they looked up, they could see dozens of Wurm silhouetted against the lightening sky. The sun was just beginning to rise, the horizon burning gold.
On the ground the hundreds of combat mages from the gathered guilds joined together. The air crackled with defensive spells, as magical shields were erected to protect them from the fire. If the Wurm wanted to kill them, they would have to descend, to come down and fight the war on the ground.
Then the real bloodshed would begin.
“Let’s go!” Timothy said, and he and Telford ran along the corridor together, with Edgar flying close behind.
The boy managed to clip the scabbard to his belt, but he knew he would not need it for very long. The sword would be unsheathed soon enough. He slid the shield onto his left arm, and by that time they were hurrying down the stairs that would take them outside, onto the upper battlements of Twilight. Many of the troops were spread out far below, but the Legion Nocturne were stationed on the towers and w
alls of their fortress.
Timothy raced out onto the stone battlement with Edgar on his shoulder and Telford hurrying after them. Around them were several Legion Nocturne mages, all of them wearing the metal and leather armor of their guild.
“Here they come!” roared one of the Legionnaires.
Edgar took to the air silently, going up to meet the Wurm raiders that were descending. Their wings seemed to slice the air, and their eyes gleamed in the dawn shadows. Fire and black smoke trailed behind them, slipping from their nostrils and open maws. Three Wurm dove down at the group of combat mages Timothy stood with, and he raised his shield. They all had magic to protect them, but he had the faith and workmanship of Walter Telford and his men.
One of the Wurm came straight at him, its jaws opened wide, and it let loose a stream of fire. Timothy raised his shield, ducking his head behind it, and the fire was turned harmlessly away. The Wurm was nearly upon him, talons raised.
Edgar screamed as he darted from the west, scratching at the Wurm’s eyes, distracting it with pain and surprise. Timothy dodged to one side, his shield taking only a fraction of the impact that would have struck him if he had remained in position. And as the Wurm scrambled to fly away, to get its bearings, he ran to the edge of the stone battlement and—with momentum that would have carried him over and down to his death if he’d missed—drove his sword through the Wurm’s chest.
The sword was lodged in the bones of its torso for a moment. As it began to fall, wings pulled tight to its body, dying before his eyes, its weight dragged him forward. Then he felt Walter Telford grab him from behind.
“Let go of the sword!” Telford cried.
But Timothy refused. He held on. The weight of the Wurm pulled on the blade, but then its edges cut bone and the sword was free. The corpse of the Wurm tumbled down, rolling to the bottom of the mountain face. Far below, Timothy saw a small clutch of Cuzcotec. The bestial, murderous mages saw the dead Wurm and looked up at him, then began to cheer.
Wurm War Page 10