The Wyrmling Horde

by David Farland

  He came and stood close to her, only an arm’s breadth away, and smiled in satisfaction. He had never been in the presence of a woman as powerful as Talon, a woman that he respected so much. He found himself attracted to her.

  A lovely girl, he thought. It is a shame that she is not older.

  In his native Dalharristan, it was the custom of old lords to marry young women, in hopes of siring one last extraordinary child. But it was not a custom that he ever hoped to engage in. The very thought sickened him. For him, marriage was a lifelong commitment. He believed that men and women should be of equal age when they married, so that they might mature, grow old, and die together. In an ideal world, the two might stand together at the last, holding hands, and die in one another’s arms.

  But men who married young girls in the hope of siring children upon them were selfish. He could not imagine feeling any kind of peace as he died in old age, knowing that he had left his children only half-grown.

  So he held back from Talon, as a gentleman should, determined to conceal his attraction.

  But there is a closeness that two people share when they have faced death together—even when they have faced death at each other’s hands.

  The passion that the battle had aroused in Talon came swiftly.

  She grasped him by the shoulder, then pulled him close. As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m old enough to know what I want.”

  She kissed him then, and he was surprised at the ferocity of it—and at his own passion.

  They stood for a long moment thus, holding one another, hearts beating as lips met. It felt good to be in her arms. It felt like coming home after a hard day’s labor. He had never felt so . . . honored to have the love of a woman. He had known love before, but in his society, a wife was rarely considered a man’s equal.

  “What would your father say of this?” the emir asked softly.

  “Which father? Aaath Ulber loves you like no other. He would leap for joy to have such a match. You’ve saved his hide more than once.

  “But Sir Borenson, I fear, would be incensed to find that I love the shadow of Raj Ahten. He killed you once. And if he knew that you kissed me, he’d try to kill you again.”

  “Well then,” the emir said, “let us break the news gently.”

  He held her, and suddenly became worried that in the coming battle he might lose her.

  After long minutes, Tuul Ra pulled out of her embrace and prepared to go back down into the cavern.

  “One question,” he asked last of all. “On that shadow world, how was I, the mightiest of all flameweavers, killed?”

  “Raj Ahten’s limbs were lopped off with axes,” Talon said. “Then he was wrapped in chains and thrown in a lake to drown. My father had as much to do with it as anyone.”

  “So I was killed by good men?”

  “Yes.”

  The emir absorbed the news. “It was an act worthy of a hero. I must thank him, when next we meet.”

  It was with a heavy heart that the emir ducked beneath the hanging roots of the great pine, shoved the door securely closed behind him, then descended the stone stairs with Talon at his side.

  At the foot of the stairs the great room opened up; once again the emir was struck by the magical atmosphere of the place.

  Crowds of folk were settling in for the night against the walls, having laid their bedrolls upon rafts of dry moss. No cooking fires burned. Crickets chirped merrily, while out among the crowd a trio of musicians played softly on wood-winds. The air was thick with the scent of water and clean soil. Stars seemed to hang in the air above them, and it seemed lighter now than before. But that had to be an illusion, he decided. When first he had entered the shelter, he’d come in from the harsh light of day, and all had seemed dim. Now he had come in from the gloom of dusk and storm, and the same room seemed bright.

  In a far chamber, the emir could hear the facilitator Thull-turock chanting. He was already preparing to start the endowment ceremony.

  “How soon shall we leave?” Talon asked the emir.

  “A couple of hours at most,” he said.

  “That is not much time to say good-bye.” Talon had probably been thinking of her own mother, Gatunyea, but the emir drew a sharp breath of pain. His daughter, Siyaddah, had offered her own endowment to him, and once the endowment was transferred, he would never be able to speak with her again. It was a terrible sacrifice, and the emir spotted Siyaddah down in the crowd, waiting near the foot of the stairs for him.

  Alun stood at her side, and as the emir approached his daughter, Talon withdrew a few paces to offer some privacy. Siyaddah strode forward, her eyes glistening from tears in the light of the false stars.

  “Father” was all that she managed to say.

  He stood before her, admiring her, but could not speak.

  “Tell her not to do it,” Alun suggested. “I will give you one of my dogs. You won’t need her.”

  “And if I back out,” Siyaddah said, “won’t the others who have offered their endowments feel deceived? They made their gestures in part because of my sacrifice.”

  The emir did not answer. She was right. He just held her eyes, admiring her.

  Such strength, such goodness, he thought.

  He admired her more than words could tell. But he spoke as well as he could: “Why are there not more men with such great hearts as yours?”

  “You can have all of my dogs,” Alun offered. “I don’t care about them.”

  But no one was listening. To steal endowments from a dog would be a churlish thing, the emir decided. To take advantage of a dumb animal because of its faithfulness—it was beyond his power. He did not have that kind of cruelty in him.

  “Take my endowment!” Alun offered.

  The emir smiled at the young man. Alun was a mongrel, an ill-bred man, but it was obvious that he loved Siyaddah. It was just as obvious that her affection for him was as a friend, not a lover.

  My daughter seems intent to break many hearts today, he thought.

  “I thank you for the offer, Alun,” the emir said. “But I fear that I would be taking it under false pretenses, and that would be dishonorable.”

  “I love your daughter,” Alun said. “There is nothing false in that. And because I love her, because I wish to honor her desires, I offer my endowment. She made her offer because she believes in you, believes that you are the best hope for this rescue. I think she is right.”

  The emir needed endowments, that much was true. Another one, offered honorably, would be greatly valued. But he did not want to give Alun false hopes that he might win his daughter’s hand. Nor did he wish to take an endowment from someone whose motives were not entirely pure.

  Alun was hoping to buy Siyaddah’s love, and the emir knew that it could not be purchased.

  Had Alun begged to give his endowment in order to free his king, or to save his people, the emir would have taken it gladly.

  But the Emir Tuul Ra had recently been in a council meeting attended by Glories, and he wanted to be like them. Something inside him whispered that taking Alun’s endowment would be wrong.

  It is not a gift that he offers freely, he realized. It is a bribe, one that carries an onus.

  “I thank you for your offer,” the emir said, “but I must decline. You hope to win my daughter’s heart, and it may be that you shall. But you will have to find another way.”

  14

  * * *

  FORWARD INTO BATTLE

  Battles are seldom won with an ax and shield upon the field. More often, they are won by cunning before a blade is ever swung.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  Things moved quickly for Talon after her match with the emir. The endowment ceremonies took only an hour. The facilitators had put the finishing touches on a few forcibles during the march, carefully filing the runes upon the heads of each. Thus Talon and the Emir Tuul Ra were ready to garner their first attributes—one endowment each of brawn, grace, metabolism, stamina, sight, sm
ell, and hearing.

  The ceremony took place in a small chamber away from the public, where only a few potential Dedicates and their families could sit at once. The air smelled fresh here, for a crack in the high stone roof let Talon see up a natural chimney to where the stars shone. The stream that had fallen into limpid pools in the great room earlier now flowed into this room, becoming a burbling brook. There was no furniture here, only rocks to sit upon and some rafts of moss to lie upon.

  Daylan Hammer presided over the ceremony, with Lord Erringale standing tall at his side in raiment that shimmered like sunlight upon green leaves. Each of them inspected the forcibles before the rite proceeded, Erringale frowning at the forcibles for a long moment.

  “You taught the shadow folk well,” he said to Daylan, with an undertone of subdued anger, “though you were sworn to secrecy.”

  “The Runelords of that world discovered most of the lore themselves,” Daylan said. “I gave them a little help, mainly to stop the horrifying experiments that they were performing.”

  Talon wondered at this news. The discovery of rune lore was lost in history. She had not suspected that the technology was first a product of the netherworld, or that it was meant to be hidden from them.

  “It was not well done,” Erringale said. “There are no more true Ael anymore, not since the shattering. The power to grant proper endowments has been lost. There can be no more Ael.”

  “It is true that the rune lore does not work as it once did,” Daylan said, “and the Runelords are seldom as honorable as our Ael once were. But overall, the good that has been done has outweighed the bad.”

  Erringale said no more.

  The Cormar twins were first to take attributes. They had already been granted dozens of endowments before the fall of Caer Luciare, but now they asked an honor that Daylan Hammer was loath to give.

  “We wish to twin our mind,” one of them said. Errant, Talon thought it was, though she could never be certain, for the two looked so much alike. “Thull-turock has said that among the ancient Runelords, this was sometimes done.”

  “Sometimes it works,” Daylan said, “but more often it leads to grief. I would advise you against it.”

  “But you will not stop us?” Tun asked. Or at least she thought it was Tun. Her father once said that Tun was a hair taller, and a bit more reckless. Talon could not tell them apart, either by voice or by appearance.

  “I don’t have the authority to stop you,” Daylan said. “I am not your king, nor your lord. As I see it, no man is. I suggest that instead of asking me, you put it to your comrades, as representatives of all your people. They are the ones who will be most affected, if this fails.”

  So the Cormars stood before Talon and the Emir and offered their argument.

  “By twinning our minds, Errant and I will be able to read one another’s thoughts, to fight as a perfect team—two men, four arms, but only one heart. And if it works,” Tun said, “it will be a great benefit. I will always know what my brother is thinking, what he sees and hears.”

  “Yes, and if it doesn’t work,” Daylan said, “it will lead to madness and a loss of self-control.”

  The emir studied the men, looked to Talon for her thoughts. “You’re the one with experience in such matters,” he said. “I know nothing of Runelords and their strategies.”

  “I know a little about it,” Talon offered. “In ancient times, it was sometimes done. There were some great fighters, the Sons of Wonder, who did this. Most often, it was done with men who were raised as twins, who often sparred with one another, and so were already intimately familiar with each other.”

  “And what factors lead to madness?” the emir asked.

  “Selfishness,” Talon said. “Twinning works best with those who love one another truly, who share no secrets from each other.”

  The emir thought for a long moment. Errant Cormar urged, “We are going up against the combined might of the wyrmling horde. We are going to fight wyrmling lords and Knights Eternal with endowments of their own—how many we cannot know. And the Death Lords will be there, led by their emperor. We need every advantage.”

  Obviously, the Cormars were concerned. The emperor’s troops loomed large in their imaginations. In their world the wyrmlings were seen as unbeatable. But Talon had lived in both worlds. As a Runelord she knew what kind of damage a single highly endowed assassin might do. History could show dozens of instances where entire kingdoms fell within moments as Dedicates were brought low.

  After a long moment the emir sighed. “I would advise against it. This is a new art to me, and by nature I mistrust it. Yet so much depends upon us. The world depends upon us to succeed, to bring Areth Sul Urstone and the Wizard Fallion home. I cannot advise you yea or nay.”

  “I think it is well worth the gamble,” Thull-turock said.

  But of course you would say so, Talon thought. You’re a facilitator, and if you succeed in this, it will greatly add to your reputation.

  She didn’t dare voice her thoughts. Talon worried that they were too small-minded.

  And so, leaning upon their own counsel, the Cormar twins granted one another an endowment of wit. It was a ceremony that offered little in the way of danger. For one moment after surrendering his wit, Errant Cormar became a gibbering idiot. But then his brother granted an endowment in return, and then both men looked normal.

  They did not begin twitching and shrieking, as it was said sometimes happened when two men fought for control of their joint mind.

  Yet it was obvious to Talon that they were in turmoil, for they stood for a long moment, both of them gazing off reflectively as their eyes darted this way and that.

  They’re sifting through one another’s memories, Talon realized, learning the things that they thought no one would ever know about them—their most secret memories, their hopes and fears.

  Daylan saw it, too, and said, “Gentlemen, come with me for a moment. We need to talk of supplies, and strategies. I would like your ideas on how to proceed. . . .” And he led them from the chamber.

  He’s trying to distract them, and focus them, Talon realized. And suddenly it was her turn to take endowments.

  There were few surprises for Talon in the ceremony. As a child, she had seen the white scars left by the branding irons upon her mother and father, and with wide eyes had asked about the rites. “What does this one stand for, Mother?” she had asked, looking down at the squiggly lines inscribed within a circle.

  It was no design that could be easily described. All runes seemed to have a look of rightness to them, as if in form alone they held some power, but you couldn’t tell what that power was just by looking at the rune.

  “That one stands for hearing,” Myrrima had answered.

  “Who gave you their hearing?”

  “I got one from a dog,” Myrrima had answered, “a special little yellow dog, bred to give hearing to Runelords.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  And Myrrima had told her, “It’s a terrible thing to take an endowment. It didn’t hurt me at all—or if it did hurt, it hurt because it felt so good. There is a point where pleasure can be so great, it feels almost as if it will take your life. I’ve seen Runelords swoon from the pleasure when they take an endowment.”

  “I wish I felt that good,” Talon had said.

  “Ah, but it hurts the giver. The dog that gave me his endowment, he yelped and yelped in pain and would not stop for half an hour. Tears came to his eyes, and he ran away from his master who had been holding him during the endowment ceremony. The dog felt bewildered and betrayed.”

  “But did you hear better afterward?”

  “I heard surprisingly well,” her mother had answered. “I could hear the high-pitched squeaks of bats at night so loudly that sometimes it would keep me awake if I tried to sleep. If I lay down on the ground, I could hear mice burrowing beneath the grass, and the baby mice squeaking as they cried for their mother’s teats. Then of course, there was always your father. I cou
ld hear his stomach gurgling and churning from his evening meal, and if he began to snore—well, I could forget all about sleep!”

  Her parents had seemed almost . . . disfigured to her. Masses of white scars covered her father’s chest and arms. Sir Borenson had always pretended that he could not remember where most of them came from. He’d been only sixteen when he took his first endowments, and over the years he claimed that his memories had faded.

  When questioned, he would act befuddled, and then find some excuse to walk off.

  Talon had thought that he was hiding something until her mother explained, “Your father took endowments of wit when he was young, so that he could learn to fight more quickly. But when his Dedicates were slain, the men from whom he had taken wit had died, and your father forgot a great deal. Imagine for a moment that you took four endowments of wit, and studied hard for several years; then one day someone stole four-fifths of all that you had learned. That’s the way it is with your father.

  “It’s not that he is embarrassed to talk about it, I think. But it hurts him to admit how much he has lost, for you see, each Dedicate who died, your father took as a sign of his own failure.

  “It is a Runelord’s duty to protect his Dedicates. It’s not important to do it just to make sure that you keep your endowments. It’s a matter of honor. The people who give you your endowments, they’re people just like you—with homes, and families, and hearts that break. You get to borrow their strength, or their vigor, or their beauty. And while you rejoice, they suffer terribly.”

  Talon’s curiosity about her parents’ scars had never really waned. She’d heard stories about them so often that in time the tales of the ceremonies seemed more like memories than history.

  So she knew what to expect—the harking chants of the facilitators, the smell of charred hair and burning flesh, the glowing worms of light that came from the forcible as it was pulled away from the Dedicate’s skin, the rush of ecstasy that came at the touch of the forcible to her own skin.