The Wyrmling Horde

by David Farland

  With so many endowments of metabolism and brawn, she sped through the air like a bolt. In less than an hour she neared Rugassa. With her endowments of sight, she could see the roads well enough to recognize that there were no convoys traveling in the afternoon sun.

  Her only hope was that the convoy was still farther south.

  She veered, hurtling along. Her four endowments of metabolism made her swifter than a falcon.

  Rhianna skirted above the trees and brush, staying nearly half a mile in the air. Much of the country was lush fields that had gone brown with the summer sun. The intermittent oaks were a dark green.

  She found the convoy none too soon. The sun was falling in a red haze.

  A giant black graak could be seen ahead, sleeping beside a rocky crag, in the shadows on the northern exposure of a wooded hill. It raised its snakelike neck and peered up into the trees. She could see perhaps a dozen wyrmling guards breaking their camp, some of them hauling chests to load onto the graak while others puttered around.

  Rhianna was loath to do battle with so many wyrmlings, but she had no choice. If she left them to their own affairs, their load of forcibles would reach Rugassa tonight.

  And if she did not attack now, she would lose the advantage of daylight.

  She climbed high in the air, flying toward the sun, then folded her wings and dove toward the guards.

  They never saw her coming. At the last instant she folded her wings, molding them to her body, and went hurtling just overhead of the huge graak—a sharpened sword snicking the neck of the graak, then taking the heads off of two guards.

  The graak roared in panic and tried to lift into the air, but a great leather rope bound it to a tree, so that it flapped and roared and lurched about angrily as it died.

  The wyrmlings were thrown into a panic. Their reaction surprised her. Six of the guards scattered, rushing blindly into the shadows of the trees, trying to escape. Two others threw down their weapons, hoping for mercy.

  Only two of them prepared for battle.

  Rhianna suddenly realized that she was moving so blindingly fast that the wyrmlings hadn’t got a good look at her. They saw only the wings, and most of them seemed to believe that she was one of their own Knights Eternal. Perhaps they feared that they had displeased their masters somehow.

  With a rush of insight, Rhianna realized that she would not need allies for this raid.

  I am an army, she thought.

  With that she dove into the wyrmlings, to take vengeance for the man she loved.

  She swept into two defenders who had kept their wits. One of them hurled an iron war dart, but she easily dipped a wing, dodging the missile.

  He raised his ax high, and Rhianna folded her wings at the last instant, letting her weight carry her under his guard. She cut him down at the knee, hurtled past him; then in a thunder of wings she slowed her course, flipped in the air, landed, and faced the next challenge.

  The second guard roared and spun to meet her with such speed that Rhianna realized that he must have taken a few endowments himself, but she was endowed like one of the great Runelords of old, and he was no match for her. She plunged her blade into him three times before he could raise a shield to defend himself, and while he began to stagger from his death blow, she whirled and went after the surrendering guards, cutting them down even as they realized their error.

  Then she flew into the woods, giving chase to those that had fled.

  Two minutes later, not a wyrmling was left.

  The giant graak lay on its belly, bleeding its life away, panting from exertion.

  There were half a dozen chests on the ground. Rhianna lifted one, heard the clank of forcibles. By its heft, she figured that it weighed a hundred pounds, and held a thousand forcibles.

  One by one, Rhianna lugged each chest into the sky, and then flew them to an abandoned well near an old farmhouse some twenty miles off.

  There was no way to erase the signs of her battle. The enormous graak lay in a ruined heap, and Rhianna could not afford to waste time by trying to hide the body.

  As a trophy of war, she carried a chest with a thousand forcibles back to the horse clans.

  12

  * * *

  ORACLES

  The appearance of weakness invites attack. Therefore, show weakness only when you want to lure others into battle.

  —Lord Despair

  The sun had just begun to fall beyond the horizon when Lord Despair sensed the attack.

  He was at the summoning fields, hidden within the bowl of the volcano that was Mount Rugassa. Here Zul-torac had opened the gate to a shadow world called Thiss, and even now emissaries from that brutal world awaited him—the Chaos Oracles.

  They stood in the gloom of the evening. The first star shone overhead, and bats flitted about in the sky above. But the Chaos Oracles could not be seen, not clearly at least. Vague forms could be sensed, monstrous creatures with spurs of bone that rose up from their backs and heads like cruel thorns, but a storm seemed to swirl about them—ragged bits of cloud and striations of darkness screaming in a whirl, hiding their forms, so that all that could be seen from time to time was the odd horn or glowing eye.

  There were four of them in the field, or perhaps five. Even Lord Despair could not be certain, and the folks in his retinue reacted to the strangers with a mixture of fear and revulsion.

  Strange thoughts passed through Despair’s mind—wisps of memories of torture, half-forgotten dreams, the voices of people who had died long ago, the faces of strangers seen in childhood. There was no order or coherence. Random images and sounds flashed through his mind. It was a sensation unique to those who met Thissians.

  At Despair’s side was his trusted servant Emperor Zul-torac, a sorcerer who had forsaken his flesh, and now only hovered, draped in a wispy black cowl to lend him some form. At their backs was a retinue of a dozen wyrmling dignitaries—a pair of Death Lords, a pair of Knights Eternal, and the High Council from the Temple of the Wyrm. Last of all came the emperor’s own daughter, Kan-hazur, who had just escaped two nights ago from Caer Luciare. The girl limped along slowly, her visage gray and weary.

  Her years in prison have made her weak, Despair thought. We should put her to work in the mines, toughen her up.

  Despair’s fearsome servants did not seem to know how to react to the Thissians. The strange visions and distorted sounds had frightened his men.

  Despair stood, studying the Thissians warily.

  “Why do they not speak?” one council member whispered.

  “It is a custom on Thiss,” Despair answered. “When strangers meet, they announce their benevolent intent by standing silently for several minutes, regarding one another. The Thissians are searching your minds, sifting through your dreams and ambitions, reliving the memories that have shaped you. They are getting to know you better than most of you will ever know yourselves.”

  The wyrmlings seemed to accept the statement, but after a long moment Emperor Zul-torac asked, “Why can we not see them?” His voice whispered like the wind among dead grasses.

  “They can bend light to their command, just as do my Darkling Glories or the strengi-saats,” Despair explained. “Night hunters on dozens of worlds have developed this skill—but few of them so powerfully as the Chaos Oracles.”

  He said no more, but one of the High Council members whispered, “Ah, I see: that is why you are bringing us all together.”

  Dull creature, Despair thought. He should have seen it much sooner.

  Despair marked the man for death.

  “But darkness has nearly fallen,” Emperor Zul-torac noted. “Surely these ones can let their mists dissipate.”

  “No,” Despair whispered, “they will never let the mists of darkness down. Among the shadow worlds, the Thissians are unique. Their forms are hideous even to themselves, and to others of their own kind. Thus they have learned to clothe themselves in mists and wisps of darkness, to hide themselves from themselves. They do not look upo
n one another, even to copulate.”

  A Knight Eternal, Kryssidia, said boldly, “I want to see them anyway.”

  “And if you saw one,” Despair said, “you would regret it for as long as you live. The image would haunt you, torment you, and drive you mad. Be thankful that they hide themselves.”

  The world of Thiss was unknown to Despair’s ancient enemies, the Bright Ones of the netherworld. There were so many worlds to monitor, to map, that the Bright Ones had given up long ago. Despair, of course, had made certain that they were too occupied to turn their eyes to these far places.

  Thiss was but one of tens of thousands of worlds that had fallen into Despair’s grasp. While the Bright Ones remained woefully ignorant of such worlds, Despair comprehended them all.

  At that moment, Earth’s warning struck, and Despair gasped. “Something is wrong,” he said. “Something in the world has changed. Our enemy has raised his hand against us.”

  The emperor shifted at Despair’s side. “Are you certain?”

  “The Earth Spirit has been whispering to me for days that an enemy is coming,” Despair answered, “telling me that my servants should flee Rugassa. I have ignored the warnings. My shipment of blood metal should be here soon, and our allies are coming—things that should tip the scales in our favor. But something has happened. . . .”

  “Perhaps your enemies have begun taking endowments,” the emperor said, his robes fluttering just above the ground.

  “We need not guess at our enemy’s plans,” Despair said. “We have the Chaos Oracles to guide us. Listen. . . .”

  He had waited a full five minutes to address his guests, time enough for them to get acquainted.

  “Have my servants told you why I summoned you?” Despair called out.

  From within the vortex of swirling mists and tatters of night, a voice answered. “No one has told, but we know.” The accent was strange, soft and crackly, and the voice was filled with hisses and pops, like the sound of meat sizzling above a flame. It carried the hint of the Thissian tongue, but the Thissians had sifted through the wyrmlings’ memories and learned their language well.

  “Tell me, why I have sent for you then,” Despair said, “so that my friends may begin to understand your worth.”

  “You seek to create an alliance so powerful that you will overwhelm the inhabitants of the universe. You seek to dominate them for all time. You need us to translate your desires to creatures from a thousand worlds.”

  “And can my plans succeed?” Despair asked. This was a question in his mind. He had pondered the plans for eons, and he wished to know if all was in order. Despair planned to create alliances among the cruelest races in the shadow worlds.

  “Your plans will succeed, O Great Darkness,” a Thissian answered. “Worlds shall grovel at your command.”

  One of Despair’s men whispered, “How can they know?” His voice was so soft that the question should not have been overheard, but a Thissian answered.

  “Can you not see it? Time is like a river, flowing downstream, but not all of the water moves one way. There are eddies and whorls and backflows, if you look closely. Time is this way. Not all can be seen, but glimpses can. I behold countless worlds, groaning beneath Despair’s burden. I behold seas of blood. I witness darkness falling across the heavens, smothering out all light.”

  Despair felt pleased, and he looked to see his wyrmlings’ reaction. Some seemed doubtful, others eager.

  “What do I offer for your aid?” Despair asked, not because he doubted that they knew, but so that the Thissians could prove their powers to the others.

  In answer, a hand rose above the swirling mists of darkness—a hand with but two enormous fingers, both of them twisted and covered with bony thorns. It pointed toward the first star of the night. “Worlds without end,” the Chaos Oracle intoned, “all under our sway.”

  “And do you accept the offer?”

  There was hesitation. “Your people are strong in the ways of war, and races from among the stars shall flock to your call. But none are like us. None are like the people of Thiss. You are unperceptive, hardly more sentient than stones.”

  “That cannot be helped,” Despair said.

  “We are so alone,” the Thissians mourned.

  “Nor can I offer any comfort to you,” Despair said. “In the whole universe there are no others like you. You will remain alone, yet I will cherish you above all other allies.” Despair paused. “Will you share my fate?”

  The Thissians hissed and crackled for a moment as they spoke in their own tongue; after a bit one answered, “We shall.”

  Despair smiled in satisfaction.

  “Now,” he said, “the Earth warns that my fortress will soon be under attack. From what quarter comes the danger?”

  The Thissians hesitated a moment. “There is a treasure that you seek—rods of blood metal. They have fallen into enemy hands. . . .” After a bit longer, “They will use them . . . they come . . . to free the Worldbinder.”

  “Can we thwart their plan?”

  “Yes, O Great Wyrm, easily. Send your Knights Eternal. . . .”

  Despair stood facing one of his Knights Eternal, Kryssidia.

  “Take your companion and fly to Caer Luciare in all haste.” The Death Lord in command of Caer Luciare had been slain. Despair did not even know the name of the wyrmling now in charge. “Tell the commander of the fortress that I need a shipment now—enough blood metal for two thousand forcibles, no less.”

  Despair felt in his heart. Giving this command would make a difference, the Earth agreed. The danger diminished, but did not dissipate completely. Despair did not understand why. Perhaps two thousand forcibles was not enough. Or perhaps they would not arrive in time.

  He considered ordering a larger shipment, but that did not ease his mind. No, he needed them quickly—just as the Thissians had warned.

  It was a long way to Caer Luciare. The Knights Eternal would not be able to fly there and back in a single night. They would be forced to land short of their mark, wait out the day tomorrow. So he added, “Let nothing delay you. Fly there and return without rest. It would be better for you to break your necks in your haste than to let me down.”

  Kryssidia glanced uncomfortably upward to where the thin evening light streamed above the rocks along the bowl of the volcano’s cone, but he did not hesitate. He dropped to one knee, put a hand upon the hilt of his sword, and said, “Your every desire commands my deeds.”

  Then he nodded to his companion and the Knights Eternal leapt into the sky.

  Despair wished that he had more knights like these. His Death Lords, with their ability to communicate from spirit to spirit across the leagues, had certain advantages, but they could not take endowments.

  He made a mental note to have some warriors go down among the wyrmling horde to find some pregnant females. Knights Eternal could only be recruited from stillborn babes. The rites necessary to create the proper conditions were long and arduous, and as part of the ceremony, his priest needed to strangle a fetus while it was still in the womb, and then rip it from its mother. As the child lay dying, it would crave air, crave life, and if the child was cunning enough, the Death Lords had a brief window of opportunity to teach it the spells necessary to tear the life force from those around it.

  If it survived the first five minutes out of the womb, its training would begin in earnest. Only one in thousands survived those first five minutes.

  Yet even the diligence of the Knights Eternal did not lessen the coming danger.

  Despair stood for a moment in the cone of the volcano and peered upward, gazing at the stars for a long moment before he headed into the fortress.

  There is much to do, he thought. There are worlds to conquer.

  Held captive in his own body, Areth Sul Urstone was witness to the evil imaginings of Despair’s heart. Despair looked up at the stars and could not admire their beauty. Instead, they were only a reminder of his failure. He wanted only to seize them, b
ind them, and rule over a world perfect but for one flaw—himself.

  Areth considered what to do. It was said that a man could resist a wyrm. Do good, legend said, and they will flee from you. Do evil, and they will bind you and make you theirs.

  Already, Areth wondered if he had the will any longer to resist Lord Despair.

  For his part, Despair heard the stirring of Areth within his skull, and mocked. “Plot as you will, your soul is mine. You gave it to me freely, to save your people. And I shall keep my word: your people shall live—under my rule.”

  13

  * * *

  THE DUEL

  Every creature must struggle for that which it needs. Do not waste sympathy on the vanquished. The weak get what they deserve.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  “Emir Tuul Ra of Dalharristan, I challenge you to a duel!” Talon intoned. “I fight for honor, and for the right to take endowments to battle the wyrmling horde and save my brother.”

  The emir’s face was still turned to the side. He worked his lips, and spat blood and spittle onto the ground. Then he looked up at Talon and smiled wolfishly.

  The emir knew what she was after. The Cormar brothers, Tun and Errant, could gather endowments easily. Their skill was legendary, and those who were capable of sacrificing their own brawn or grace would gladly make a gift to such worthy warriors. But Talon was no one, a girl, and among the warrior clans no woman challenged a man, unless she sought only to humiliate him.

  “Are you of an age where you can even make such a challenge?” the emir asked.

  He studied Talon’s demeanor. She was a handsome girl, and strong. He admired her spirit.

  But he could not let her make a fool of him, not if he hoped to win the endowments that he’d need to free Areth Sul Urstone.

  His question seemed to have caught Talon off guard.