The emir had been listening carefully, and now he seemed lost in thought. Talon knew what Daylan was asking of him. He would have to sacrifice much. By taking endowments, he would be giving up his life in service for his fellow men. By studying the lore of flameweavers, he would be giving up his life in service to Fire.
It was a slippery tightrope to try to walk. No man can serve two masters. Raj Ahten had failed miserably.
How could the emir hope to do more?
“Daylan,” Thull-turock said, “if you think there is nothing to fear from the emir, then you are mad!”
“No,” Daylan said. “I am not mad. But I am desperate, and one might reason that desperation is its own kind of madness. Certainly, too often it leads to folly. But only in taking this desperate course can we hope to win a nearly impossible reward.
“But I must tell you, Thull-turock, that I believe that your fears are not justified. It was neither the love of the forcible nor of flames that Raj Ahten succumbed to in the end. At the very last, Raj Ahten demanded that others call him by a new name—Scathain, Lord of the Ashes. Have you heard this?”
“I have heard that he went by that name,” Thull-turock said. “What of it?”
“That name is well known here in the netherworld,” Lord Erringale said loudly, his voice cutting through the room. He gazed down, held his hands reflectively. “It is the name of a powerful locus, a wyrm if you will. Among the loci, Scathain was second-in-command to Despair herself. Many worlds has that one destroyed.”
This news seemed to discomfit the emir more than anything that had been said. He was at a disadvantage in the argument, for he could not have known what had happened with Raj Ahten. But he understood the lore of wyrms.
“If this is true,” the emir reasoned, “then when your Raj Ahten was killed, his wyrm did not die with him! How do we know that this Scathain will not seize me? How do we know that I am not already host to a wyrm?”
Around the circle, there were cries of agreement. Talon glanced at Drewish Madoc and saw the young man’s eyes glimmering insanely. He loved this. He loved watching a good man be destroyed.
“Consider this,” Daylan called to the crowd, “the emir is a generous man, a giving man, and a courageous one. He has always spoken the truth in my presence, so long as it is polite to do so and not too hard for his hearer to bear. His word has ever been his bond. He is faithful to his people, and has no lust for honor, no craving for wealth.
“A man who is infected with a wyrm doesn’t retain such virtues. And Scathain is one of the most sinister of all wyrms. Even if Scathain had entered the emir and tried to hide his lusts and deceit, he would not be able to do so for long.
“The emir is pure. No wyrm has taken him. And so long as he remains pure of heart, none can, not even one so powerful as Scathain.”
At that there were also cries of agreement. Daylan Hammer had assuaged nearly all of Thull-turock’s concerns, and Talon could feel that the crowd was swaying toward Daylan’s cause.
“It may be,” Daylan said loudly, addressing the crowd, “that the only reason that the raj succumbed to a wyrm had more to do with the raj’s ignorance than his weaknesses. The lore of the loci had been all but lost upon his world.”
“They knew nothing of the loci?” Lord Erringale asked, astonished.
“The knowledge of loci was purposely hidden from the populace thousands of years ago. There was a time on Fallion’s world when those suspected of harboring a locus were executed summarily, and many innocent men and women died; much evil was done in the name of self-preservation.
“The folk of Luciare have had similar purges, though never to the same extent.
“And so that knowledge was concealed.”
“Thus a man who might have been a great ally on Fallion’s world succumbed to a wyrm, never suspecting that such a creature even existed. The raj took one misstep at a time, heedlessly bumbling down the path of destruction, until at the very last he became so filled with rage and lust for power that he could not withstand the wyrm when it seized him.”
There were looks of astonishment on people’s faces. From birth, Talon’s mother Gatunyea had instilled a fear of evil in her. Talon had been trained to fear nothing so much as the thought that she might someday be seized by a wyrm.
Daylan said at last, “So, it will not happen to the emir. He has known of the existence of wyrms since childhood, and he has ranged far to avoid the danger.”
The facilitator clasped his hands behind his back, and peered down at the ground. “I don’t like this,” Thull-turock said. “I don’t like the way we’re rushing into this. The emir needs to be tested in so many ways. Yet you urge me to hasten to make forcibles.”
“We have no choice,” Daylan said. “Our enemies have set the timetable. Already the wyrmlings are digging up a mountain of blood metal and have sent their first shipment to Rugassa. The journey there will take them three nights—perhaps less, since they will be in a hurry to please their lord.
“Think what will happen once the emperor gets those shipments: he’ll begin creating his own champions in earnest. And who will he grant the endowments to?”
“The Knights Eternal,” Thull-turock said, as if chilled by the thought.
“The emperor has millions of people that he can use as Dedicates. What’s more, Rugassa lies close to the borders of Beldinook. By now, the emperor is already getting acquainted with his new neighbors. What do you think he will do with the small folk?”
In the old days, Talon knew, the wyrmlings would have just butchered them, harvesting their glands for their fearsome elixirs or simply using their bodies for meat. They would not even have considered taking slaves. But in this new world, the wyrmlings would put the small folk to better uses: they could put them to the forcible, take their attributes.
“I see,” Thull-turock said.
“We cannot let that happen. We cannot let any forcibles reach Rugassa. We must act swiftly. We must have a war party take endowments and be ready to leave tomorrow—at the latest. And we cannot fail! My heart warns me that we may get only one chance at this, one chance to save ourselves before the wyrmlings take their mountain of blood metal and seize control of the world for all time.”
“A single day is not much time to grant endowments.”
Daylan said, “Our champions won’t need a full complement. They won’t need to be battle-ready. We only need them to get started. We can pass more endowments to them as they travel, vectoring them through Dedicates. Erringale’s people will help you make the forcibles.”
“How many shall we send into battle?” Thull-turock asked.
“We will need some men to help carry those that we rescue. We’ll need others to act as point and rear guards. At a minimum, we need four champions, probably five. I would like more, but it would stretch our resources to try to endow so many. I would invite the Cormar twins,” Daylan suggested. “They already have some endowments and they proved themselves at the battle for Caer Luciare. I would like to go, too, for I have a few endowments to my credit. That leaves only two openings. The emir is the best man for the job. . . .”
Instantly, Talon knew that she had to be among that war party. Fallion was more than just a friend to her. He’d been raised as her brother, and she loved him dearly. It was only right that she go with the rescue party.
Thull-turock said, “You sent Fallion’s woman, Rhianna, to seek for Dedicates among the small folk. Can we afford to wait for her to return?”
“I sent her mainly to forewarn the small folk,” Daylan countered, “so that they can protect themselves from the wyrmling troops. We must hinder the wyrmlings any way that we can. It may be that the small folk will offer us some support, but we cannot rely upon them, and we dare not wait.”
Talon wished that she had known where Rhianna was going earlier. She would have hugged her and bade her farewell. It would not be easy trying to find allies for Fallion. But no one in the world loved Fallion as much as Rhianna did. No one would try as ha
rd as she.
“You propose taking a great risk,” Thull-turock said.
“Take the risk with me,” Daylan begged. “We need to stand together on this. We need the emir, and he will need your people to grant him endowments.”
“And what if we fail? What if this great wrym takes the emir? What if we breathe life into a monster?”
“There is a fiend in each of us,” Daylan said, “in every man, woman, and child. The emir wrestled his into submission long ago.” Daylan said this with finality, as if he was sure of his argument.
“And if it escapes?”
“Then I will kill the emir myself,” Daylan replied.
The emir shook his head in dismay. “I would take my own life, rather than allow a wyrm to have it.”
All of them were quiet for a moment. The facilitator seemed unsure. “Help us,” Daylan begged Thull-turock. “Help us all create a better world. This is not just about me and you. It is not just a war confined to these few thousand people. Worlds are at stake here. Eternities are at stake. We fight for things beyond your ability to even dream. . . .”
“Is not every war such a war?” Thull-turock asked. “At least, we tell ourselves so.”
The men stood a moment, poised in thought.
Talon wondered at the consequences of this public argument. In order to grant endowments to another, it had to be done willingly. But who would give endowments to the Emir Tuul Ra now, knowing what all of them knew? Even if their minds wanted to give up the endowment, the heart would balk.
Daylan Hammer seemed to have won his argument, but he had done so only in appearance.
The emir held his daughter, Siyaddah, trying to comfort her. But it seemed to Talon that the emir was the one who would need comforting. Thull-turock had poisoned the crowd against him.
After a lifetime of proving himself to Talon’s people, the emir needed to do so once again.
Siyaddah peered up at the emir and declared loudly. “I want to be first to offer an endowment to my father. I grant you my speed, that you might hurry into battle, if you will take it?”
No daughter had ever broken her father’s heart so cruelly. The emir needed endowments. He needed his people to step forward, and by offering her speed, Siyaddah was urging others to follow her example.
At the same time, she was placing herself forever beyond his reach. For once she gave an endowment of metabolism, she would fall into an enchanted slumber, never to waken until he died, or else to die in her sleep.
More than that, she was placing herself beyond the heart of any man. The emir had long hoped that she would marry his closest friend, Areth Sul Urstone. She herself was more interested in Fallion. Now, neither of the men would ever win her heart.
It was a cruel gift to offer, for the emir could not refuse it. He had sworn to save his friend.
“Very well,” Erringale said. “It is in the finest tradition of the Ael that those who know the candidate best be first to offer up an endowment. Who else among you will grant this greatest of gifts?”
There was a moment of utter silence as each of the emir’s supporters waited for someone else to offer an endowment.
This isn’t right, Talon thought. The emir is one of the best swordsmen in the clans, and he is by far the finest strategist. He knows the enemy better than does any other man.
And suddenly, Talon realized how the emir might prove himself to his people once again.
She strode to the emir and slapped his face, hard.
“Emir Tuul Ra,” she said, “I challenge you to a duel. I’ll fight you for the right to win a place in this rescue party.”
11
* * *
BEAUTY
Power is beautiful, and the Great Wyrm is the most beautiful of us all.
—From the Wyrmling Catechism
Rhianna saw that the horse-sisters’ preparation for the raid on the wyrmlings took precedence over all else that night. They immediately went to work setting all in motion for battle. Because Caer Luciare was far away, the first order of business among the sisters was to feed their horses miln, a rich mixture of grain and molasses, to ready them for the long run.
Then the sisters began to pack, taking only light weapons and armor. That decision alone astonished Rhianna. To fight a wyrmling was an act of courage. To fight one in nothing but a horse-sister’s leather jerkin was heroic.
Meanwhile, facilitators, smiths, and jewelers began making forcibles—recasting each metal rod with the proper rune at its tip, and then filing and hammering the soft blood metal into shape.
Once each forcible was deemed usable, the facilitators could transfer endowments from one horse to another—giving each horse two endowments of metabolism, one of brawn, and one of stamina.
The smiths worked fast, far faster than the men of Caer Luciare had been able to. In part they sped along because they knew how to make forcibles. It was an ancient art here. In part they worked quickly because the women’s small hands and nimble fingers found it easier to do the work. In part they flew through the work because the master craftsmen each first took endowments of metabolism. Thus, they hoped to accomplish in one day what might otherwise have taken weeks.
The making of force horses would prove to be their greatest problem, Rhianna knew. It was a time-consuming process.
With horses, an endowment could only be transferred to the leader of a herd, whether it be a stallion or a mare.
Thus, creating a force horse sounded as if it should be easy. You could just cut the leader from the herd, and then draw endowments from the colts above one year of age.
But it wasn’t so easy as all of that. You didn’t want to take endowments from just any colt. For brawn, you might want a heavy war horse, perhaps one of the imperial breed. For speed, a racehorse from the desert. For stamina, a simple work horse might do, though mules were sometimes used. For wit, there was a breed called the Carther Mountain ponies.
And so before the facilitators could endow a horse, they had to take the strongest adults, horses two years or a bit above of age, and corral them with five or six others, creating a small herd, and then give the animals a day to fight.
Once a herd leader emerged, the endowments could be stripped from the others.
By dusk, Rhianna hoped, the first forty force horses would be ready to go.
But humans were not so finicky when it came to granting endowments, and before dawn a facilitator came to Rhianna’s tent. She was a small woman with dark hair, in costly attire.
“We are ready for the ceremony,” she said. “Which endowment would you like first?”
Rhianna hadn’t given it much thought. Brawn, she wondered. Or speed.
In that moment’s hesitation, the facilitator made up Rhianna’s mind for her. “Glamour,” she said. “When creating a powerful Runelord, the first few should always be glamour—and then voice. It makes it easier for others to give their endowments to those that they love, and you will be stronger for it in the long run.”
Rhianna’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. Glamour. Raj Ahten had been rich with it, so rich that women who should have hated him were filled with lust, and would spread their legs for him. Men who saw him imagined that there could be no maliciousness in him.
“When you see the face of pure evil,” an old saying went, “it will be beautiful.”
Rhianna wanted to be beautiful, as fair as a summer morn, as powerful as a tempest. She had heard of Raj Ahten’s wife Saffira, with hundreds of endowments of glamour. No man could resist her. To look upon her made men weak with desire.
Fallion will love me, Rhianna thought. I can make him love me more than he could ever imagine.
And as quickly as the thought came, she repented of it, trying to force the selfish desire away.
“Glamour,” she confirmed.
* * *
The endowment ceremony took place in Sister Daughtry’s pavilion, with Rhianna and her new Dedicate resting among plush cushions.
Her first
Dedicate was a young girl, perhaps no more than sixteen. In the blush of youth, her eyes were bright and her skin as white as cream.
“In giving this gift,” she said, looking noble and tragic, “I honor you, and I give myself for my land. Use my gift well, milady.”
The girl’s courtly mannerisms were overstated. She tried to look brave, but she was trembling in fear.
“Be of comfort,” Rhianna said. “Your gift does you honor. I promise to engage it in the service of our people, and I will remember always this covenant between us.”
But even as Rhianna said the words, she wondered how she could keep such a promise. She wanted the girl’s beauty so badly, she ached for it.
The facilitator took a forcible and inspected it, then began her harking song as she sought to ease the mind of the Dedicate. All too quickly, the forcible began to glow white-hot. The facilitator touched it to the back of the girl’s neck, and then pulled away a snake of light. It seemed to extend from the girl, growing longer and longer, as the facilitator examined it.
Rhianna was lost in her imaginings all through the ceremony, wondering how well Fallion might love her. And in a moment, the facilitator touched the forcible to Rhianna’s breast, and her mind seemed to explode. The feeling of health that entered her, of well-being and ecstasy, was something she could never have imagined. It struck through her like lightning, and for an instant the pleasure was so intense that she blacked out.
When she came to, a facilitator’s aide put a robe over the new Dedicate, and pulled down a deep brown hood, so that Rhianna could not see the girl’s face.
Rhianna knew what the girl would look like, though. Those fine bright eyes would be dull and lusterless, their whites having gone to sickly yellow. Her smooth skin would be dry and papery. Her gleaming hair would have turned limp and dull. Her face would be a wreck.
The facilitator studied Rhianna for an instant, the way that a sculptor might look at his own work, searching it for defects. “Beautiful,” she said. “You look so beautiful.”
The Wyrmling Horde Page 16