The Wyrmling Horde

by David Farland

“On your world,” she said, “I am eighteen years. But on the other I was seventeen. It is not that I was born at different times, but that the years on this world are shorter than on the other.”

  She stopped her rambling, focused on the question. “In both worlds, I am old enough to make my own decisions in life.”

  “Then I hope you know what you’re doing,” the emir whispered. “This is dangerous. I won’t hold back. For my people’s sake, I can’t hold back.” It was not an idle threat. The Emir Tuul Ra knew that he was the finest warrior of his generation.

  Talon gave him a wolfish smile of her own. “I can take the best that you’ve got—and more.”

  The emir sighed. He didn’t want to fight her, but neither could he refuse the challenge.

  In part he did not want to fight her because Talon was the daughter of a friend. And she was young, too young to know what she was doing.

  But more important, he had just been in a council meeting attended by Glories. There had been a sweetness in the room, a feeling of inner cleanliness, so profound that it had made him want to weep.

  It made him want to be like them. He wanted to feel holy, to carry his own inner peace with him.

  How could I bear it, he wondered, if I were to take the life of this girl?

  Yet he knew that he was the best warrior for the job. The life of a friend and comrade hung in the balance. He could not spare the girl, for to do so would put his friend, and the future of his people, in jeopardy.

  “I have no choice but to accept your challenge,” Tuul Ra said.

  It was raining when they exited the cave. The thunder that had shaken the sky earlier was gone, but the emir could hear it growling on the horizon. The skies were so leaden gray that it seemed that it was night, and rain was falling in sheets out on the grasslands.

  But the magnificent pine of the netherworld held the storm at bay. A few great dirty drops splashed from the limbs of the tree, but it shed most of the water well beyond where they stood. The storm’s only effect was to make a rushing sound as the wind tore through the pine boughs, and the treetops swayed under its onslaught.

  Talon followed the emir onto their battleground, out at the far edges of the tree, where the light would be better. Pine needles and twigs lay thick all around, creating a soft carpet that crackled underfoot. The emir reached down with a toe and dug a large circle in the ground, roughly forty feet in diameter.

  “To cross this line is to admit defeat,” he said.

  Talon nodded in understanding. As the challenger in this duel, she was forced to ask, “Choose your weapon!”

  Choose the sword, he thought. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. A bastard sword would be perfect for her, both in weight and size. He wanted to give her that much advantage. But a skilled warrior would recognize what he’d done.

  “Wyrmling battle-ax,” he said. It was a heavy weapon—almost too heavy for a human to use. But it was a favorite of wyrmling warriors, and no doubt, if the girl hoped to enter the wyrmling keep, she’d have to show that she could deflect a blow.

  The weapons were brought forward, and Talon regarded them in silence.

  The wyrmling ax was not a weapon to be trifled with, nor was it easily controlled. If the emir took a swing, he realized, he could not pull back.

  Talon would either have to block it or dodge it—or get sliced in two.

  They took their axes, heavy things with double blades. Each weighed roughly thirty pounds. They were made for lopping off heads and arms.

  The emir felt the edge of his blade. It was filled with nicks and had grown dull. There was blood on it. This was not a weapon human-made. Someone had taken it as a trophy of war, won it at the battle at Cantular.

  If Talon got hit, her death would not be pretty.

  If he got hit, his death would not be easy.

  I cannot win this battle by slaughter, he suddenly realized. If the girl defeated him, no one would grant him endowments. And if he killed her, the horror of the spectacle would turn the people against him.

  The only way to win, he realized, is to throw her from the arena.

  One of the warlords stepped forward and drew a line at the center of the circle. The warriors faced each other, one on each side of the line.

  The warlord held a coin in the air. When he let it drop, the battle would begin.

  The emir studied Talon for a moment, eyeing the way that she held her ax. There were numerous fighting styles with the ax. Some men might hold it near the end of the handle, and take large, sweeping strokes, relying upon the weight of the weapon to do its damage. Such men were dangerous on the attack, but left themselves vulnerable.

  Other men sought to balance the ax. They might block a blow with their axhead, hoping to ruin an attacker’s weapon in the act. Or they could reverse the ax and use its handle to stab quickly.

  A man who was quick with his hands could adjust his grip from one second to the next, using a number of tactics.

  Talon held her ax with both hands, keeping it firmly balanced, unwilling to give away her battle tactics.

  The emir spun his ax in one hand, limbering his muscles.

  “Talon,” the emir said. “I don’t want your blood on my hands. There is still time to withdraw—with honor. I beg you to do so.”

  “If I’m willing to risk my life against wyrmlings,” Talon said, “I’ll risk it against you. It makes little difference where I die.”

  The emir nodded his agreement, and Talon added for good measure, “If it is any consolation, I don’t want your blood on my hands, either. I urge you to withdraw. If you don’t . . . well, one of us won’t be going home for dinner.”

  The warlord looked each of them in the eye in preparation for the battle.

  The Emir Tuul Ra thought, There is no room for error with these weapons. I can’t just look good, I must be good.

  The warlord dropped his coin, and both combatants instantly sprang back a step, giving the warlord time to break clear of the battlefield.

  Talon stood perfectly still, conserving her energy, sizing up the emir. She did not want to reveal her tactics, or her repertoire of skills, too early in the battle.

  The emir took his battle-ax and began stalking around the circle, twirling it in one hand, ready to lunge in and swing.

  After an instant, he paused, stood with his ax lowered at his side, and offered, “Ladies first.”

  Talon couldn’t resist.

  She twirled her own ax, not as a demonstration of her prowess, but in the “Circle of Steel” style—which lent itself to defense but could swiftly turn into an attack.

  Then she exploded for the kill. She raced in, her eyes pinned to the emir’s, watching in order to anticipate his next move. She raised her own ax slightly, as if she would go for the throat, then dropped beneath his guard, rolling as she swept past his feet.

  The crowd erupted into shouts of astonishment at her speed, and she nearly took his leg off with her first swing, but her ax met only empty air.

  The emir leapt so high that he nearly seemed to take flight.

  Many in the crowd gasped in astonishment, for though they had heard rumors of his prowess in battle, they had not all seen him in action.

  He came down, his own ax slamming toward her.

  His heart was filled with regret, for he knew that it was a killing blow.

  Talon waited until he was committed to the attack, and the last instant planted the handle of her own ax firmly into the ground with the head of the ax up high.

  She caught the head of his ax on her own.

  His blade shattered; sparks and shards of steel flew out. One hit Talon in the throat, and instantly blood coursed down her neck.

  But he didn’t give her time to recover; the emir reversed his axhead so that he came at her with a fresh blade, and struck again.

  Talon leaned away, and the emir’s blade narrowly missed her foot.

  With one ax blade broken, the emir’s weapon would no longer be balanced. It meant t
hat his swings would require more energy to control, but were also more likely to go awry. It was a dubious advantage.

  Talon swung at his unprotected back.

  The emir tried to dodge, but she grazed his flank, then danced out of range.

  “Getting slow in your old age?” Talon asked. “There’s still time to withdraw.”

  The emir grinned. “What, and miss sparring with such a lovely opponent?”

  Talon glanced back, grinning at him, her eyes flashing dangerously. He had never fought a woman before, and suddenly her beauty and her vulnerability smote him.

  He stepped back a pace, wishing that he were not here, feeling like a cornered animal. I’m not just fighting her, he realized, I’m fighting all of my protective instincts.

  The emir circled wide, then rushed at her again. He was used to ranging the fields and woodlands, doing a hard day’s work, and he knew that he could put up a good, long, sustained fight. But what he couldn’t know was how hard she had trained, in those days when with every moment, she had to watch her back for assassins.

  For the next five minutes, the two of them raced around the ring, putting on a demonstration of skills that both of them had purchased with a lifetime. Many were the cheers and the oohs and ahs of the crowd. Many times he feared that he would kill her with the next swing, and many times she survived, until he began to realize that he might well have met his match.

  Sweat began to glaze his brow, and it made Talon’s long red hair cling to the sides of her face. Both of them began to pant from exertion, but she seemed to be able to go on all day.

  The axes whirled and sang. The two of them danced away from blows and took them head-on.

  Some old graybeards began to murmur in astonishment, “In seventy years, never have I seen two such worthy opponents!”

  Within moments, the entire crowd began to take up chants, some cheering for the emir, some calling, “Talon, Talon, Talon!”

  The emir felt grateful. He suddenly realized what Talon had done. Whoever won this battle would truly gain the support of the people, enough support to take endowments.

  But he could not let her win.

  This is Aaath Ulber’s daughter, he thought. We fought side by side. Dare I betray a friend so? Dare I kill his child?

  Suddenly he realized that he had been holding back, making a show of it. He hadn’t truly committed to a killing blow.

  If she lives through this next one, he decided, she will have earned a victory. If she can beat me, she truly deserves the honor of saving her brother.

  He swung mightily, giving it all that he had.

  It was dangerous for her to try to block such a blow, for her ax handle could easily break. But among the warrior clans, a warrior needed to demonstrate the strength to take a blow in order to win her people’s approval. Talon lunged in, forcing the emir to try to shorten his lop in midswing.

  She brought up her ax handle and braced herself for a crushing blow. It landed with such a jolt that the emir’s joints ached and his bones seemed to shiver.

  The audience cheered.

  To the emir’s astonishment, she not only managed to block the blow, she smiled through it.

  Then Talon pushed her weight back and leapt in the air, doing a complete somersault. Two more leaps and she was at the edge of the circle.

  The emir charged, his ax spinning, though with one blade shattered it was a bit wobbly. He tried to swing with his own version of the “Circle of Steel,” but had never had to practice with such an unwieldy blade.

  Talon committed to a lop, a downward stroke that could split a man in two. He halted a hairsbreadth before the blow landed and had brought his own ax handle up to block.

  It will be a simple matter to kick her from the ring, he thought.

  Her blow landed, and immediately the emir prepared to kick her in the chest, pushing her from the ring, but quicker than thought Talon grabbed his ax and somersaulted over his head. She held on to the handle as she flew, so that it rose in the air.

  Instantly she was over his head, and she jerked the handle tightly, so that she and the emir were standing back-to-back, with her gripping the handle while it rested against his throat.

  Her momentum gave her the advantage, and when she hit the ground she merely arched her back, tipping the emir up onto her shoulders, so that she had him in a stranglehold.

  The emir’s back was upon hers, and though he kicked, he could find no place to land his feet. She had the ax handle to his throat, and he could not break her grip. She was strangling him. He kicked and twisted, struggling to break free.

  Where did she learn this move? he wondered.

  Not on this world, he realized. I’ve seen hundreds of ax fights. This tactic is not from this world.

  The crowd gasped and broke into applause for Talon.

  The emir struggled, strangling, as she balanced him on her back. It would have been a small matter for her to jerk the handle forward while shrugging at the same moment, and thus break his neck, or at the very least, crush his esophagus.

  The crowd was wild with anticipation, watching their finest warrior struggle, at the mercy of a mere woman.

  She has them, the emir thought. She has won.

  Talon turned a half-circle and lifted up a bit. The emir gasped, and then got a fresh grasp on the handle of his ax. He planned to renew the fight—just as Talon dropped her shoulder and threw him—out of the ring!

  Amid the cheers and the applause, the emir sat among the pine needles for a moment, gasping.

  Talon picked up her ax, then offered him a hand up.

  The emir waved her away; he was still struggling for air. When he was able, he climbed to his feet and stood beside her, raising her hand in sign of victory. There was no anger in his heart, only well-earned respect.

  “Aaath Ulber has trained his daughter well,” the emir said, as the people cheered. “For my part, I believe that she has won the right to fight in Rugassa to free her foster brother, Fallion Orden. If anyone here would like to argue the point—well, then you try fighting her.”

  There was a good deal of clapping from the crowd. No one challenged her.

  The emir added, “And if there are any who are willing to grant her their endowments before she goes into battle, I encourage you to do so.”

  The applause faded, and one woman shouted, “Speed, I can give her my speed.”

  “Grace,” a second woman said. And others called out their offers—all women, offering to gift their champion. A young man, a boy of perhaps seventeen, called out soberly, “She’ll need a man’s strength. I’ll give mine.”

  Then the offers began in earnest.

  The emir patted her shoulder, and headed back under the base of the tree. He felt like a failure, like a whipped dog slinking away from a fight. He’d felt this way far too often before—but only after battling wyrmlings.

  “Where are you going, Tuul Ra?” one old warlord called. It was grandfather Mallock, a scarred old graybeard who had survived many campaigns but was so crippled by arthritis that he had been forced into retirement.

  The emir wasn’t certain where he was going. “I want a drink, something strong, though I doubt that much can be found in camp.”

  Old warlord Mallock laughed and reached down under his breastplate and pulled out a glass flask with honey-colored liquid. “Will whiskey do?”

  The emir took the proffered bottle, downed a swig.

  He thought his old friend would offer condolences. Instead Mallock was studying the emir’s face with reverence. “I saw Bannur Crell fight with a wyrmling’s ax back in my youth. He was a legend in his own lifetime, but you could have bested him easily.”

  A couple of other graybeards stood at Mallock’s back, and they grunted agreement.

  “I haven’t got much time left on this earth,” Mallock said. “The wyrmlings took my home, my family, my country. But I’ve got my wits still. Will you carry them into battle one last time for me? Perhaps they’ll do you some good.�
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  The Emir Tuul Ra merely stood for a moment, too surprised and too overcome with emotion to answer. “Wit!” Mallock shouted. “I offer my wit to the Emir Tuul Ra!”

  “Brawn!” another graybeard called. “I’m still as strong as any man in this camp. I offer my brawn.”

  The emir saw what they were doing. These were old men, venerable. They were showing him more support than he had dared dream.

  A young woman called out, “Grace. I’ll give you my grace. You both fought as if you had harvester spikes in your necks. I’d like to see the wyrmlings try to stand against the pair of you.”

  So the folk stood out in the gloom for fifteen minutes, while night fell upon the meadows around them and a facilitator registered the offers of endowments.

  When the offers were done, the emir had been promised nine to Talon’s ninety. He would not be her equal in combat, far from it, but then, he told himself, I was a fool to think that I ever was her equal.

  The crowd filed off, back down into the cavern beneath the pine. For some reason, the emir did not want to go back. The battle fury was still upon him, making his hands tremble. Apparently Talon felt the same. She too lingered outside and leaned with her back against the tree. Behind her was one of the huge carven faces of the Wode King. It was taller than she, so that her back arched against its chin.

  Daylan Hammer hesitated before heading for cover, and warned, “Do not stay out long, and do not leave the shelter of the tree. Night is coming, and with it the Darkling Glories begin their hunt.” He cast a glance out into the gloom, “Though I daresay with this rain, not many will be about.” Daylan rushed down the hole, beneath the tree.

  The emir smiled at Talon. “Congratulations,” he said. “You won your endowments. And you gave me mine. Was that your plan? Are you really such a clever girl?”

  The two of them still stood in the gloom while out beyond the shelter of the tree the rain sizzled amid the open fields, and overhead the great pines creaked and sighed softly in the wind.

  She grinned. “I had hoped that they would give you more. Is it enough, do you think—nine endowments?”

  “I’ve fought the wyrmlings all of my life with only the strength of my own two arms. So I will go. I had hoped to lead this expedition, but now I’ll be satisfied if I can only keep up with you.”