The Wyrmling Horde

by David Farland

Cullossax dared not go back out the way that they had come. The other tormentors were probably rushing toward the entry now.

  So he grabbed Kirissa’s hand and pulled her through the crevasse, out the back side of the rock.

  The sun was just setting behind them. A bat squeaked overhead and flitted away.

  On the far side of the crevasse, a steep cliff led down into the wastes of the shaggy elephant.

  There was only one way to go: down the slope, past the sandstone hoodoos, and into the vale, filled with hunting cats and elephants.

  Cullossax leapt down the cliff and tried to keep his feet as he descended in a cloud of dust and scree.

  At the bottom of the cliff, Kirissa stopped for an instant. A long, piercing howl sounded from the rocks above.

  They turned and glanced up to see two wyrmlings in the shadows, not three hundred yards behind, both wyrmlings dressed in black tunics.

  “Run!” Cullossax shouted.

  The chase began in earnest.

  Cullossax sprinted until he thought that his heart would burst, and then he ran some more. Through the thick grass he and Kirissa charged, grass so tall that it reached Cullossax’s chest, and he worried whether the grass might harbor hunting cats.

  Thin clouds had drifted overhead during the day, creating a bloody sunset that died and darkened into full night within an hour.

  At the end of that hour, the hunters had still not taken them. He could see them pacing behind, yet they did not press forward.

  He wondered if they were wounded. Perhaps in tracking him across the open desert of the day, they had gone sunblind and still could not see well.

  It might be that they’re afraid of you, he told himself. But probably not.

  No, he decided, this is the first part of the torment.

  A wyrmling torment was not just a punishment—it was a rite, sacred and profound. It was society meting out justice.

  My hunters have endowments of speed and strength, and I do not. They could rush in and take me at any moment. But now they hold back, and laugh. They plan to run us into the ground.

  He passed a large herd of shaggy elephants to his right, and worried that the bulls would attack. But they only formed a living wall, standing tusk-to-tusk, to bar Cullossax’s way to their calves.

  After two hours, Kirissa was reeling from weariness. Even her good wyrmling breeding would not let her go on forever. Her steps became clumsy and she staggered almost blindly.

  Still they ran.

  A hill loomed ahead, a small hill on the rolling plains, and Cullossax told himself, I will climb that hill, and I can go no farther.

  But Cullossax had one last hope. As a tormentor, he was allowed to carry a harvester spike to use in an emergency. It was in a pouch, hidden inside his belt.

  In a battle, he would have jabbed the spike into his carotid artery so that the precious secretions on it could be carried quickly to his brain. Now he elected to use it more cautiously. He pulled the tiny bag from his belt and rammed the spike into his palm.

  In seconds he felt his heart began to pound as adrenaline surged into him, granting him a second wind. His eyes misted, and a killing haze settled over them.

  So he pounded through the deep grass, blazing a trail for Kirissa, until he neared the hill.

  The hunters came for him then, howling and laughing in sport, rushing up behind.

  They were almost on him now. He could practically feel their hot breath on the back of his neck. He was almost at the top of the hill. There was just one steep rise between him and the far side.

  “Run!” he shouted to Kirissa. “It is me that they want.”

  He whirled to meet the tormentors, pitting the old magic of the harvester spike against the new magic of the Runelords.

  Kirissa ran like the wind, and Cullossax wheeled on his foes. The wyrmlings that raced toward him hardly looked like men. Their faces were pocked and reddened from sunburn. Their eyes were glazed from physical abuse.

  The men raced toward him at three times the normal speed, but the harvester spike had worked its magic. Time seemed to have slowed for Cullossax, dilating as it will when the passions run high.

  He raised his javelin and feinted a thrust to one man’s face, but instead hurled it low, catching the harvester in the hip. The man snarled in pain.

  The fellow lunged at Cullossax, hurtling through the air like a panther.

  The harvester spike was no match for endowments. Cullossax tried to dodge, but the man plowed into him anyway.

  Cullossax was a big man, larger by far than most wyrmlings.

  I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him, so that Kirissa can break free.

  He grappled with his attacker, pulling him in close, grabbing him in a bear hug and then crushing with all his might.

  He heard ribs snapping, smelled the tormentor’s sweaty clothes, saw the wyrmling’s eyes widen in fear.

  Then the attacker wrenched his arm down with surprising strength, and drew the black knife from its scabbard. Cullossax knew what the man was trying to do, and tried to stop him by hugging him tightly, holding his arms against his chest, but the attacker was too strong, too quick.

  Cullossax felt three hot jabs in quick succession as a knife snicked up into his rib cage. Hot blood boiled from his wounds.

  I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him.

  With all of his might, Cullossax jerked his arms tight, snapping his attacker’s back.

  The knife came up, slashed Cullossax across the face, and then Cullossax hurled the tormentor away.

  He stood for a moment, blinded by his own blood. The man that he’d wounded with the javelin had pulled it free, and now was limping toward him.

  Blood bubbled in the cavern of Cullossax’s lungs, and he grew dazed. His head spun.

  The wounded tormentor hurled his javelin, catching Cullossax in the sternum, just below the heart. The power of the blow, combined with his own dizziness, knocked Cullossax backward.

  Cullossax lay on the ground, gripping the javelin.

  He missed my heart, Cullossax thought. He threw too low. But it did not matter. His lungs had been punctured, and his life would be over in a matter of seconds.

  His heart was pounding, and his tormentor laughed at him in derision, when suddenly Cullossax realized that he heard the thunder of hooves rising through the ground.

  He heard Kirissa shout something strange, “Gaborn Val Orden!” The name of her Earth King.

  And suddenly he realized that they had reached human habitations.

  Kirissa must have dashed over the hilltop just as a phalanx of horses crested from the other side.

  Cullossax wrenched his neck and peered up the hill. He’d never seen horses before, not like this.

  These were blood-red in color. They wore steel barding on their heads and chests, and the metal masks made their faces look hideous and otherworldly.

  Their riders were just as terrifying—wild human women with frightening masks and long white lances. Some of the women bore torches, and the horses’ red eyes seemed to blaze in the fierce firelight.

  Their captain saw the three wyrmlings and shouted in some strange tongue. The riders charged toward the lone scout who was still standing, lances lowered.

  Cullossax’s eyes went unfocused then, as the wyrmling assassin met his fate. His death cries rent the air, a wailing sound like a dog dying.

  Grinning in satisfaction, Cullossax faded toward unconsciousness.

  Run, Kirissa, he thought. Perhaps when all the worlds are bound as one, we will meet again.

  10

  * * *

  ONE TRUE WORLD

  Wyrmlings are such needy creatures. Food, water, air—the Great Wyrm has provided for all of our needs. She even offers us immortality, so long as we obey her every demand. Blessed be the name of the Great Wyrm.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  Talon walked into the Bright Ones’ sanctuary down a long winding tunne
l, where the curved walls were as smooth as eggshell, a soft cream in color. The floor was formed from slabs of stone, with strange and beautiful knots and whorls chiseled into them. At the landing, the entryway fanned out into a great hall. It was unlike anything that Talon had ever imagined.

  The room was large enough to hold ten thousand refugees and more. The walls off to her right seemed to be natural stone, as pale as cloud, and several waterfalls cascaded down over some rocks into a broad pool, raising a gentle mist. Lights like stars blazed above. They hung motionless in the air, only a dozen yards overhead, bright enough that they held the room in an enchanted twilight, as if just before the crack of dawn. Up near the top of the waterfalls, the stars gave just enough light that they nurtured some strange creepers that hung like tapestries from the rock, the pale leaves dotted with brilliant red flowers. White cave crickets sang in the wan light, creating a gentle music that merged with the tumble and tinkle of falling water.

  Hallways and corridors yawned ahead, and many in the company forged deeper into the cavern, into antechambers where they might find some privacy and collapse for the night.

  Few of the Bright Ones seemed to be here in camp. Talon saw no more than two dozen of their men and women in the cavern. Several of them moved off with Daylan Hammer into a small vestibule to hold their council.

  She saw bright flashing lights a few moments later, and she went near the vestibule on the pretext of calming one of Alun’s mastiffs that was trotting around, woofing in excitement.

  Talon halted beside the stream, called to the dog, and scratched at its neck, beneath its fearsome collar. A white cricket fell from the roof and landed in the water. The stream boiled as a fish lunged up to take it.

  Talon glanced into the side tunnel.

  The Bright Ones stood with Daylan Hammer in a circle, each of them gazing down at a round stone table as if deep in thought. Above them, creatures circled, like birds made not of flesh but of light, each about the length of a man, with ethereal wings that did not move. They were the source of the flashing lights that had drawn Talon.

  Glories, Talon realized. According to legend, the Glories were the spirits of just men who had forsaken their own flesh—much like the Death Lords, Talon mused, though she suspected that she had it backward. Legend said that the Glories had existed long ago, back in the dim recesses of time, but the Death Lords had to be more recent, for legend said that they had been created by Despair.

  The Glories seemed to exude life and light, but the Death Lords of Rugassa had no life or light in them; they survived only by draining life from others.

  The Death Lords are but a vile mockery of the Glories, Talon realized.

  As Talon’s eyes adjusted to the light, she studied the room. The vestibule was circular in shape, with a table made from a single piece of jasper. Fine chairs carved from cherrywood lined the outer wall. Tapestries of red embroidered with threads of gold carpeted the floor.

  Erringale was speaking in the council chamber, but his liquid voice mingled with the sounds of running water, the chatter of people, and the chirp of cave crickets. Talon could not make out what he said, and even when she could make out the liquid tones of his voice, she could not understand him. It was as if she could understand his words only when he willed her to.

  In the great hall, people fanned out. Some went to the lake and began to drink. Others unpacked bedrolls to sleep on, for they had not slept in nearly two days. Some just threw themselves to the ground in exhaustion.

  Alun came to retrieve his mastiff, and as he stood beside Talon patting its muzzle, he too peered into the council chamber.

  Alun was an ill-formed man, with big ears, a crooked nose, and spindly arms.

  A voice spoke at Talon’s back. “So, what you thinking?” It was Drewish, one of the sons of the dead Warlord Madoc. Drewish and his brother Connor stood leering over Alun.

  “Thinking?” Alun asked. “Nothing.” Somehow, it seemed that he did not want to be accused of thinking. Talon imagined that he didn’t want to have to reveal his thoughts to the likes of Drewish.

  The Madocs seemed not to even notice Talon. She was, after all, only a young woman, and so, like Alun, was beneath them.

  “A smart man would be thinking about how to better his lot in life,” Drewish said. “A smart man would be thinking about how to get himself some forcibles. That’s the way of the future. All of our breeding, it won’t count for a turd—not when a man like you could take the strength of five men, the wisdom of ten, and the speed of three.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alun asked.

  Talon knew that Alun had heard about this new rune lore, of course, but apparently he hadn’t entertained the notion that he might actually be granted endowments.

  “Forcibles, you know,” Drewish said. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a long purse, and let it sway like a bell. Talon could hear forcibles clanging together, like dry pieces of wood.

  “Where did you get those?” Alun asked. He reached up to grab the bag.

  But Drewish pulled them just out of his grasp. “The blood metal is everywhere. No big trick to having someone make a few forcibles for you, if you know who to talk to. The big trick now will be finding someone who is willing to give you an endowment. Take your pick—wit, stamina, grace? Who will give you theirs? What coin can you offer to get it?”

  “I don’t know,” Alun said, mystified.

  Certainly, Talon thought, no one would give Alun an endowment.

  He must have thought the same. “What are you offering?” Alun asked. “Do you want my endowment?”

  “Not yours,” Drewish laughed. “Your dogs’. A dog can give up an endowment as easily as a man. You want strength? Those mastiffs of yours have it. You want stamina, speed? There’s a dog for that. Scent and hearing too. But we need the dogs to give up those endowments. We need their master to coax the gifts from them. That’s where you come in. The dogs love you. You’re their feeder, their handler. They’re completely devoted to you, not to us.”

  Drewish took out a pair of forcibles. “One forcible for every six dogs,” Connor said, “that’s what I’m offering. You’ll be a Runelord if you take me up on it.”

  Alun considered.

  Talon knew that it was tempting. Alun had fourteen dogs. If he sold Connor and Drewish a dozen endowments, he’d have a pair of forcibles and could take two endowments himself.

  He’d be a Runelord. Perhaps with some strength and stamina, he could become more of a warrior, raise his own lot in life.

  But Connor and Drewish would both still be far more powerful than he. Right now, they loomed over him, subtly threatening.

  And where would Alun go to get endowments from humans once his dogs had all been used up? No one would give them to someone like him.

  It wasn’t much of an offer, Talon decided.

  Petty bribes and threats, that’s how the Madocs led.

  She wondered if she might buy the endowments from Alun herself, but she had little coin to offer. There were a few treasures in her dowry box, but she’d been forced to leave that back in Cantular. Doubtlessly, her pair of fine gold rings would end up decorating some wyrmling lord’s nostrils.

  From the council chamber, she heard Daylan cry out in anguish, “There is no law against compassion. It is true that I broke your laws, but I did it only to obey a higher law. How can we serve society if we do not serve the individual first?”

  There was a brief moment of silence, and Daylan cried out again. “If you would resist evil, you cannot just stand idly by and watch its dominion spread. You must thwart Despair’s every design!”

  Both Connor and Drewish turned to glance into the council chamber.

  Talon realized that Daylan was in the other room searching for a way to save the world, while she, Connor, and Drewish were plotting how to overthrow it.

  I don’t want to be like them, she told herself.

  And suddenly she knew that she could not let the likes of Connor and Dr
ewish get control of those dogs—or take endowments from any other man or woman.

  He is a fool who empowers his enemies, Talon thought. It was something that her father used to say.

  Connor and Drewish were rotten to the core. Their father, despite all of his talk of serving the people, had been no better than his sons, and in the end, when Talon had watched him fall to his death from the parapet at Caer Luciare, she had felt no more loss than if she had ground a cockroach under her heel.

  “How can we do this?” Alun asked the Madocs. “How can we grant you these endowments? People will see what we’re up to. Some will object.”

  “We will do it with their permission,” Connor said. “The jewelers and smiths are already at work making the forcibles, putting the runes in them. Daylan Hammer and the emir plan to lead a team to Rugassa to free Areth Sul Urstone and that runt of a wizard Fallion. I want to go with them. I want to be among the heroes that helps free them.” He hesitated for a moment, as if Alun might object, but Alun held his tongue. “So when the time comes, I want you to offer your dogs as Dedicates, and suggest that we be granted those endowments. It will sound better coming from you.”

  Talon wondered. She could think of no good reason why the Madocs would make such a grandiose gesture as to join the rescue.

  Connor was rumored to be an outstanding swordsman, but in raids against the wyrmlings, neither he nor Drewish bloodied their weapons. They consistently failed to prove themselves in battle.

  They preferred to stand back from the front and observe the engagements, as if they were superb strategists who were studying wyrmling tactics so that they might use their knowledge to great advantage to win some future war.

  Meanwhile, Talon thought, Alun has risked his neck and cut down the wyrmlings in a haze of rage.

  Even that runt Alun is better than them, Talon thought. They might have the breeding for war, but they don’t have the heart for battle.

  No, she did not trust the Madoc clan.

  Talon began to suspect the Madocs of darker motives. Neither of the Madocs would want to see Prince Areth Sul Urstone take the throne.