The Wyrmling Horde

by David Farland

  “Take a hornet’s nest, shake it up, and beat it with a stick—and you will get some idea of how our reavers are acting. My scouts say that not a stone of the city is left standing—not that there is any harm. The whole region has become infested with strengi-saats, and is as bare of meat as a well-chewed bone. Now the reavers are stirred up, and may be coming this way.”

  Rhianna consulted a mental map. If the reavers were heading from the southeast to the northwest, they could easily miss the camp by miles. “With any luck, they’ll bypass you and march right into the wyrmlings’ fortress at Rugassa.”

  “One can only hope,” Sister Daughtry said. “It wouldn’t hurt if these reavers were to club a few wyrmlings for us.”

  Rhianna wondered. Could Gaborn have been preparing the horse-sisters to battle the wyrmlings by having them buy mounts? Could he have really sensed the danger to Carris so many years ago?

  She couldn’t imagine that.

  And yet . . . it made perfect sense. The horse-sisters were renowned for their ability to fight on horseback, with either the lance or the bow. They would need blood mounts with perfect night vision if they were to defeat the wyrmling horde.

  Of course, one could not discount Carris and Gaborn’s warning to evacuate.

  I was so wrong about Gaborn, Rhianna thought. He died years ago, but he has not left us.

  The very thought gave Rhianna a thrill of hope.

  I was right to come here, she thought. The Earth King is still with us, and watching over us as best he can. He trusts the horse-sisters, and so can I.

  “You are far out of your own territories,” Rhianna said. “Aren’t these Lowicker’s lands?”

  “There was a prairie fire this summer,” Sister Daughtry explained. “It burned much of our lands. Beldinook sold us grazing rights for the fall—at the cost of much gold.”

  Rhianna wondered at this. Relations had not been so friendly between the two countries a decade ago. But perhaps they were not friendly now, either. There was an edge to Sister Daughtry’s voice, a tone of anger or outrage.

  Rhianna felt sure that there was more to the story, but Sister Daughtry changed the subject. “These giants that you warned us of, the wyrmlings. Should we kill them on sight, or can we reason with them?”

  “Not all wyrmlings are evil,” Rhianna suggested. “I saw defectors at Caer Luciare—spies that worked for High King Urstone. But I do not know if you will be able to speak to them, for their tongue is strange, a combination of grunts and barks and growls.”

  There was a long moment of silence as Sister Daughtry thought.

  “So, will you help Fallion, then?” Rhianna pressed.

  “You spoke of a trade,” Sister Daughtry said. “Is this the coin you want in return for forcibles—the rescue of your mate?”

  “It is in part,” Rhianna said. “I offer you a great treasure, but in making the offer, I ask that you act responsibly. The whole world will have need of forcibles—not just the horse-sisters, but all of the world, including the kingdoms of men.

  “The horse-sisters have not been treated well in the past. Your people were once the poorest of all, at least when wealth is measured in forcibles. But soon you may be the richest. I know where a vast treasure lies, and I will lead the way to it, but I do so in fear and trembling at the thought of what may follow. I would ask that you not take vengeance for ancient wrongs, but share your power with what decent men you can find.”

  “Spoken like a true leader,” Daughtry said. “You never met your grandmother, but I think that she would have been proud.” She sighed deeply. “I will honor your wishes. Lead us to this mountain of blood metal, and we will free your lover. And we will share this treasure with the good men of the world.”

  Rhianna smiled wryly, and tested her. “Do you think there are any good men left in the world?”

  Sister Daughtry reached down and picked up a stick, poked the stump of a burning log, moved it deeper into the embers.

  “The Knights Equitable are all gone,” Daughtry said. “They were good men, for the most part. But the Brotherhood of the Wolf remains. Though the warlords of Internook may hold our world by the throat, it is rumored that good men still fight them in secret, as best they can. Scoundrels among the warlords, the worst of them, often end up murdered, their throats slit as they lie in drunken stupors, or they find themselves ambushed while off on one of their little jaunts a-whoring. It is only because of the Brotherhood that the thugs from Internook show any restraint at all. I suppose that it is time for the horse-sisters to join their cause.”

  Rhianna considered her words. The Brotherhood of the Wolf had been formed under Gaborn’s patronage, and had been a powerful force for good ten years back. It seemed that once again the Earth King was watching over them.

  Good omens all.

  So she reached across the fire to shake, clasping hands at the wrist, and thus sealed the bargain.

  “A force of heroes is gathering,” Rhianna said, “preparing to breach the wyrmling stronghold in order to free Fallion Orden, along with Prince Areth Sul Urstone. They may need your help. They may need Dedicates.”

  “We can find Dedicates,” Sister Daughtry said. “But I ask one thing in return—parity. If we are to empower men, we must also empower our women to the same extent. I demand that a horse-sister be allowed to join this company of heroes. She should be granted great power.”

  Rhianna bit her lip. It was obvious what Daughtry wanted—her own set of endowments.

  “I trust that the horse-sisters have chosen wisely,” Rhianna said. “Your skills in battle along with your wisdom have earned your people’s trust—and mine. Go with the rescue party. Lead it if you like. I would give you my own endowment, if I could.”

  But of course, Rhianna had granted an endowment when she was young, and thus could never do so again. Even the most talented facilitator could not draw a second attribute from a Dedicate.

  The knowledge saddened Rhianna, for she desperately wanted to help.

  Sister Daughtry smiled. “Oh, I was not asking for me. I’m thinking that you should be the horse-sister to go. Don’t you agree?”

  Rhianna was stunned. She had imagined that if she made this bargain, the forcibles would be granted to some powerful lord, skilled in war, hungry for power. She never imagined that she would be granted so much as a single endowment. “I, uh, why me?”

  “Because your motives are pure,” Daughtry said. “You want the power only to save the man you love, and to fight our common enemy. You yourself fear that these forcibles will fall into the wrong hands. Having lived a lifetime of pain and torment, you have become acquainted with unwarranted suffering. You know how much evil this power brings, and you will guard your heart against it.”

  Rhianna suspected that Daughtry was right, but Rhianna also doubted her own heart.

  “You fear to take them?” Sister Daughtry asked.

  “With power comes pride, and with pride comes a sense of entitlement,” Rhianna said, recalling something that her mother said. “And from a sense of entitlement, many evils are born.”

  Sister Daughtry smiled, peered both at Rhianna and through her. “Yes, I think I have chosen well.”

  She changed the subject. “And now, about this mountain of wyrmling treasure . . .”

  To the best of her ability, Rhianna sketched a rough map on the ground. She knew that the fortress of Rugassa was three hundred miles north of Caer Luciare, and suspected that the fortress was close to a hundred miles from where they now stood.

  “It will be a long ride to that mountain of yours,” Sister Daughtry said. “If the wyrmlings are mining the metal, they will have begun taking endowments.”

  “Perhaps not,” Rhianna said. “The wyrmling lords are still in Rugassa. I suspect that they will want it first. Being voracious creatures, they will not want to share with their underlings. That means that the wyrmling soldiers will have to send the blood metal north. They will pull it in large handcarts. They are powerful
men, and tend to march a hundred miles per night.”

  “It has been only a night since your battle at Caer Luciare,” Sister Daughtry said. “That means . . .”

  “The wyrmlings should be delivering their first shipment in two days at dawn.”

  “The wyrmlings must never see a single forcible,” Sister Daughtry said, her face hardening. “We should head south, try to cut them off near Caer Luciare, where they will be far from help. But two hundred miles is a far ride. The horse-sisters will never be able to reach the wyrmlings in two nights.”

  Now Rhianna brought out the rest of her treasure, opening her pouch and spilling two hundred blank forcibles onto the ground. “You can make it if you have force horses to ride.”

  8

  * * *

  EARTH’S SPIRIT RISING

  Time is a thief that steals our memories. With each passing day they recede from us, and more has been forgotten than shall ever be known.

  There is no lock that can hold against Time.

  It is only when a great wyrm seizes us that we find ourselves with a worthy guardian, one that can withstand the onslaught of Time.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  The Sanctum had long been used for worship among the wyrmling hordes. A small oval dais of gray agate lay on the floor, with golden filigree forming the three-pointed star upon the ground, where orators could address the lords of the wyrmling horde. Seats made of polished cedar climbed in rows above the dais.

  Behind the dais, against the back wall stood an onyx statue of a woman—not a wyrmling woman with a bony ridge on her brow and oversized canines—but a Bright One, a woman flawless and perfect, who stood with her back straight and her angry face glaring down at the ground, as if wrenching away from the audience in disgust.

  Her hands stretched down, her fingers pointed to the earth, every finger rigid.

  Many a lord had wondered at the statue. It was supposed to represent the Great Wyrm, and so they imagined that it should be a world wyrm that stood carved there. But Despair had inspired the artist. It was a statue of Yaleen—at the moment that she turned away from the world in horror and bitterness.

  Now, in the theater, Lord Despair awaited the chance to take endowments. Humans had been brought into the amphitheater—small folk captured from a nearby castle. Dozens of them huddled in groups, fathers giving comfort to their wives. Young girls weeping. Children with eyes round from fright.

  Some had been wounded in the battle. One boy had blood running down his neck where an ear had been ripped off.

  But most were whole and healthy, ready to be harvested.

  Despair gauged the worth of each.

  His eyes fastened upon a boy of five, one with piercing blue eyes. He had a wholesome look to him, and soulful.

  He pointed to a guard. “Bring me that child.”

  The guard waded in among the small folk and plucked the boy from the crowd. His mother shrieked and tried to hang on to the boy, but the guard shoved her back. The men called out for mercy, and some looked as if they would fight. Their shouts became a riot of noise in the background.

  The guard brought the child to Lord Despair and sat him on Despair’s lap. The boy trembled and struggled to leave.

  “Sit,” Despair said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  The boy sat, shaking in terror.

  “Look at me,” Despair said. “Do not look away.” The boy complied, and Despair reached up with one finger and ran it along the ridge of the boy’s cheek. He had a strong cheek, a strong nose, and curly blond hair that fell to his shoulders.

  “You are a handsome lad,” Despair said. “Did you know that?”

  The boy bit his lower lip, nodded.

  “I’m sure that you do,” Despair said. “Your mother tells you this all of the time, doesn’t she? She tells you every day?”

  The boy nodded again.

  “You love your mother, don’t you?”

  Fear shone in the boy’s face.

  Despair nodded toward the nearest wyrmling soldiers, who made up a wall of flesh that stood between him and the crowd. “You see those wyrmlings, those monsters? They want to hurt your mother. They want to take her away from you.”

  “No!” the boy pleaded.

  “No, I don’t want them to do that either,” Despair said. “It would be frightening for you I think, and it would break your mother’s heart.”

  Despair peered into the child, using his newfound gift of Earth Sight. He could see the child’s hopes and fears, his deepest longings.

  He was a good child, smart and honest. He would grow to be the kind of man that others trusted someday, a leader. He would be the kind of man who could win people’s hearts.

  A mayor, perhaps, Lord Despair thought, or maybe he’d become the master of some guild.

  As he peered into the child’s heart, Despair felt a soft mental nudge.

  “Choose the seeds of mankind,” the Earth Spirit whispered. “You must save some through the dark times to come.”

  The nudge was soft, insistent.

  But Despair had a better use for the child. “You love your mother,” he whispered, “I can see that. I can speak to the wyrmling guards for her. I can make it so that you can stay with your mother. I can make sure that no one hurts her. But if I am to help you, you must give me something in return.”

  Despair did not need Earth Powers to see how much the child wanted that. The boy grasped Despair’s sleeve in the attitude of a beggar. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything.” The boy fished in the pocket of his tunic, and brought out a boar’s tusk—obviously a prized possession.

  “No,” Despair said, pushing it away. “I need something else. I want your beauty. I want to be every bit as handsome as you.”

  The boy thought for a moment, unsure what was being asked of him. Then he nodded.

  The boy didn’t need to know how his glamour was to be taken. He didn’t need to know how much it would hurt, or how he might regret it in coming years. All that the boy needed to do was give it with a willing heart.

  “All right, then,” he said, gathering his courage.

  “Fine,” Lord Despair said. “Let’s go in the other room for a moment, so that you can give it to me, and then I’ll take you back to your mother.”

  That night Lord Despair, Master of all Rugassa, slept on the stone floor in his chamber, eschewing the tiny cot that made up his bed. Perhaps it was only habit that made him long for the floor. Lord Despair had not yet completely subdued Areth’s soul, and found himself reacting at times as Areth might. After long years in the dungeon, Areth felt more at ease upon the stone floor than on a bed. Somehow, the closeness of the stone also succored him. Its earthy scent filled his nostrils as he lay so close.

  And so the two, enjoined at the spirit, slept on the floor.

  It had been a good night’s work. Despair had managed to take several endowments—nine of glamour, four of voice, two of brawn, three of grace, two of wit, one of sight, one of stamina, two of hearing, and two of metabolism.

  In doing so, he had become more than human, and when further forcibles arrived, he would become the greatest of all. So he slept peacefully.

  In his sleep, Lord Despair dreamed. . . .

  A storm was coming. The skies had grown dark on the horizon as clouds rushed in, the sickly greenish blue that portended a hurricane. Lightning flickered at the crown of the storm, sending booms that faintly rattled the bones, and the wind suddenly gusted and screamed in far places. The acrid tang of dust, blown in the wind, permeated everything, and beneath that lay the heavy scent of water.

  He was standing on the parapet outside his bedroom, open to the sky, gripping the rails to the parapet. Enormous stone gargoyles flanked each side of him, long-toothed hunting cats of the plains, sculpted from yellow jasper. The wind blustered through his hair, and his cape billowed behind him.

  He peered down into the walls of his keep and saw tens of thousands of people of all kinds, wyrmling and
small folk, and even humans from Caer Luciare—he espied children with sticks doing mock combat in the streets under the stars, women hanging wash out to dry, men singing as they split logs for beams to fortify the tunnels—all of them innocently going about their affairs.

  A boom sounded, startling him, and shook the stone floor of the parapet. The whole tower rocked from it, and he saw bits of stone dust flake away from the gargoyles and go drifting down, down, hundreds of feet.

  The people below did not react to the thunder. They continued to go about their affairs, unaware that a storm was brewing—nay, not a storm, Despair decided, a hurricane, the kind of monster that comes only once in ten thousand years.

  Lord Despair could feel the threat of it. The wind would lift children from their feet and hurl them about like leaves. The rain would fall in a deluge, and those caught within it would be swept away in floods.

  In his dream, the voice of the Earth whispered, the voice of a young woman, as his eyes were held riveted upon the wyrmling horde. “The End of Time is coming. Behold your brothers and sisters, eating and breeding and toiling. You have been granted the power to save them, as was done with your fore-bearers. There are so many to choose from. Look upon them, and choose.”

  Lord Despair could not turn away. He peered down at a small boy sweeping a wagon that the teamsters had unloaded, and he felt such compassion for the child that his heart nearly broke. He wanted to shout a warning, but he was too far away to do so.

  “Choose,” the Earth whispered, and Despair recognized the woman’s voice. Lord Despair whirled, and saw a young woman, graceful and beautiful to look upon. Her name was Yaleen. She was made of pebbles and stones and soil and crushed leaves, as if the humus from a garden had taken human form. Yet she was as beautiful as if she had been freshly sculpted from flesh.

  In all of the millennia of existence, Despair had never felt such awesome power as this woman exuded. There was such profound love in her voice, such compassion. She was trying to bend Despair to her will.