So, Fallion realized, the man worked for Fallion’s old enemy. Hale had manned his outpost for years, and even now perhaps was unaware that the war was over and that Shadoath had lost. The very fact that Hale had come with Shadoath though, gave Fallion pause. And briefly Fallion wondered if Shadoath had returned-if the locus had taken a new body.
Perhaps Hale is not human, Fallion thought. Shadoath had brought fallen Bright Ones and golaths with her from the netherworld, along with her strengi-saats. It was possible that Hale was something other than human, some breed of giant.
Hale studied Jaz, Rhianna, and Talon, gave an approving nod. “So, I knew you’d come back,” he said smugly. “But I didn’t know you’d come back like salmon-to spawn.”
He burst into a round of crude laughter, and some of the archers on the wall followed suit.
He plans to kill us, Fallion knew, but he won’t try it yet. He wants to savor the moment, draw it out.
“So, I remember you,” Hale said. “Do you remember me?”
Fallion shook his head. “No.”
“We’ve met before,” Hale said. “I’ll give you a hint. It was on that day you run off.”
Fallion remembered. Lord Asgaroth had brought troops to the castle, surrounded it, and then demanded that Fallion’s mother offer up her sons as hostages.
Fallion himself had stood on the wall and given his answer, commanding the archers to open fire.
“I remember,” Fallion said, not completely sure. “A fat man on a pony, a giant of a target, rushing off. I remember a fleeting thought, ‘How could they miss that one!’”
Lord Hale roared in glee. Oh how he was savoring the moment. Fallion calculated that in an instant, he would command his troops to fire.
So Fallion took the initiative.
“I did not command my men to fire lightly,” Fallion said. “It is a grave thing to take another’s life, even if it must be done to satisfy justice.”
Hale mocked his choice of words. “Oh, it is indeed a grave thing to take a life. Ain’t it lads?”
“I’m sorry now that I must take yours,” Fallion said. “I offer you one last chance. Surrender yourself, and I will be lenient.”
It was a sincere offer, but Hale merely grinned patiently and said, “Come and take my life, if you think you can.”
Fallion raised his hand, as he had upon that fateful day, and called out to Lord Hale’s troops. These were no men that he recognized from the old days when his family held this castle. These were rogues and bandits that had crawled out of the hills.
“You men upon the walls,” Fallion shouted. “I am Fallion Sylvarresta Orden, heir to Gaborn Val Orden, and rightful lord of this realm. I bid you to join in helping restore peace and prosperity to the land.”
He looked toward Lord Hale, and shouted “Fire!” as he made a pulling motion with his fist.
None of the archers fired upon Warlord Hale. But then Fallion hadn’t expected that they would.
Hale laughed in derision, looked right and left toward his archers. At his glance, the men stiffened, drew their bows to the full. His patience was at an end, Fallion could see. He was tired of playing.
In apparent resignation, Fallion said, “If your men won’t obey my command, perhaps the heavens will.” He raised his hand a second time and shouted “Fire!”
He let go of some the energy that had been stored in him, sent it questing behind him, used it to heat the torches so that they all flared up in an instant.
He gathered that heat and sent it racing through the air. The torches sputtered out as a dozen ashen war bows suddenly superheated and burst into flames. The well-oiled strings and the lacquer made perfect fuel.
At that instant, Fallion’s friends scattered, and Fallion drew a wreath of smoke about him, just in case any of the archers had the presence of mind to try to fire one last shot with the flaming bows.
A couple did, muttering curses as the arrows flew. But the sudden flames had spoiled their aim, and the worst that happened was that a fiery arrow blurred past Fallion’s shoulder.
Lord Hale barely had time to register his surprise. Perhaps he had not seen the unnatural gleam in Fallion’s eye, or perhaps he had not recognized it as the mark of a flameweaver. Too late he saw his mistake.
Fallion reached into the sky, sent his energy out and used it to gather motes of light from the heavens, as if trapping flies within a web.
From horizon to horizon the skies went black. Then he drew the light toward him in a fiery funnel, an infernal tornado that dropped white hot into his palm.
For half an instant, he let the fire build, and then hurled it toward Warlord Hale.
The fireball struck, hitting the warlord’s oily skin, his clothes, and Hale shrieked and tried to bat the flames away. But Fallion only intensified them, sent energy streaming into him so that as an outer layer of hair or skin or fat burned, steam rose from the inner layers, drying them until they caught flame too, then the layer below took fire.
It happened quickly, a few seconds at most, but Fallion burned the man, turning him into a fiery pillar of blackened ash and pain.
Only his eyes Fallion left untouched, so that Hale’s men might see the horror in them.
Lord Hale flailed about, shrieking, and then just staggered over the wall and dropped into the moat like a meteor, where his carcass sputtered and fumed in the water.
The guards all dove for cover, lest Fallion target one of them next.
Cheers arose from the commoners that Lord Hale had kept as his slaves in the castle, and suddenly there was the pounding of feet on stairs as some of them began rushing the guards, intent on taking vengeance for years of abuse.
Fallion and those outside the castle could do little now except wait for the drawbridge to open.
He peered at the bridge, and a Seal of the Inferno blossomed in his mind, a fiery wheel, striking him like a blow.
It seems so near, he thought. The seal must be nearer than I imagined.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his vision.
There were screams and the clash of arms coming from the castle. He worried for the peasants who were giving their lives in this battle.
He did not like the brutality, but he could not deny the people their well-deserved vengeance.
They hunger for it, Fallion thought, and by the Powers, after the horrors that I’ve seen, I’d like my fill of it myself.
TAKING COUNCIL AT TWILIGHT
Better to die a fair death than to live as a wyrmling.
— a saying in Caer Luciare
Dogs can talk, Alun knew, and right now, Wanderlust was telling him that she smelled a wyrmling.
Oh, a hound doesn’t speak in words, but their bodies can tell you volumes.
Wanderlust stood with her muzzle pointed down a dank trail in the deepest shadows of a swamp, growling far back in her throat. Her tail did not wag, as it would if she only smelled a stag or a bear. Instead, her flanks quivered nervously, and the nub of her tail was as steady as a stone.
She turned and looked back at him, imploring with her eyes, asking what to do. If the wyrmling had been near, she’d have taken small leaps backward while peering in its direction. No, the trail was hours old.
“Leave it,” Alun whispered, gripping his short spear. “We’ve got better things to do.” He pointed to Daylan Hammer’s prints in the mud.
After accepting the honor of the hunt, Alun had gone to his room and retrieved his leather boots and a light spear. He took no armor, no heavy steel, sacrificing safety for speed. Daylan Hammer was small, but it was said that he could run with the speed of three men.
Catching the immortal’s scent had not been hard. Alun had simply gone to the barracks where Daylan slept and stuck Wanderlust’s muzzle into his bed. From there, the hound easily tracked him through the woods, even though Daylan rode on horseback.
Alun had to race to keep up all morning, but at no time had Daylan Hammer ever gotten more than two or
three hours ahead of him.
As Madoc had predicted, Daylan Hammer had broken off from the hunt early. He’d ridden south of the castle for nearly ten miles, through the rocky Hallow Hills and down into the swamps beneath. Then he’d left his horse when the muck got too thick, and set off on foot.
He was traveling fast. Even in a mire he could outrace a commoner, it seemed, especially one who had to worry about making any noise that might alert his quarry. Alders and willows raised their leafy branches all around, and Alun had to make sure not to step on fallen twigs.
Fortunately, Alun had figured out where Daylan Hammer was going. There was a hill not a mile ahead, a small rise where, in some distant past, the ancients had raised a sand-stone tower. Large images had been carved into the inner walls of the stone-likenesses of six beautiful women; thus it was called the Tower of the Fair Ones. Though the wind and rain had ravaged the outer ramparts, the women were still there today, safe and protected. Legend said that it once had been the home to a wealthy merchant who kept his daughters under strong guard, safe from the attentions of ill-bred suitors
In fairer times, it had been a popular retreat for lovers.
Alun hurried along through the brush, with Wanderlust silently urging him on. She had never been one for barking much, and Alun had taught her not to bark at all when on the trail of an outlaw.
Because the ground was soft and he did not want Daylan Hammer to know that he was being followed, Alun took his path parallel to the hero’s track. As the ground rose, cover became dense. Blackberry bushes tangled among a few evergreens and fern thickets. The water in the nearby swamps was warm, for much of it came from hot springs and geysers high on Mount Luciare, and was diverted through the castle to heat it, even in winter. Because of this, the plants here had an easy winter, and were larger and lusher than in the valleys nearby.
When Alun finally spotted the old tower rising above the woods, he halted. He was only a hundred yards off, and he could see Daylan Hammer there with his back to Alun. The immortal had leaned a log against the tower, which was only about forty feet high, and now was climbing the log, using it to scale the tower wall.
Alun retreated beneath the low branches of an evergreen for cover and lay in the shadows with one arm resting around Wanderlust to keep her quiet.
Daylan Hammer reached the top. The roof had caved in ages ago, and so the immortal merely balanced upon the narrow rock wall. After a moment, he took off his cape and threw it to the ground, then unsheathed his war hammer and let it fall, too.
He relaxed for a long moment, shook out his auburn hair, and just stood, gazing up toward the sun, as if taking his rest, daydreaming.
Daylan Hammer looked like a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was short of stature, even among the poorly bred, but of course was dwarfed by those of the warrior caste. He had a weathered face, his beard cut short. But there was agelessness to his blue eyes, as if he had seen far too many horrors and had loved far too often and had grown weary of life.
Alun wondered what the immortal dreamed about. Perhaps, he imagined, Daylan Hammer had been in love with one of the beauties whose image was housed inside. Perhaps he comes here only to mourn her.
As minutes stretched into hours, Wanderlust grew bored of the watch, and soon lay in the shadows of the evergreen, snoring. As the sun began to drop toward the horizon, Alun fell to dreaming himself. There was a chance that he could be freed. And he began to think about what that would mean.
Wanderlust whimpered in her sleep. Her paws were in the air, and she waved them just a little. Dreaming of the hunt, of rabbits or harts, Alun figured from her smile.
He could understand dogs. Their body language spoke volumes. Not like women. You can look at a pretty lass and never have an idea what she is thinking, if she is thinking at all.
Alun didn’t have a lover, had never even kissed a girl. He had once approached Gil the fishmonger and asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage, but the man had laughed in his face. “What? An oaf who stinks of dogs wants to marry my daughter what stinks of fish? What malodorous little tadpoles you would spawn!”
The fishmonger’s daughter was nice to look at. She had long brown hair and eyes as solemn as an old hound’s. And she didn’t talk much. That was a fine trait, in Alun’s estimation. He had been teased rudely as a child, and couldn’t bear the presence of gossips or scolds.
Once I become a clansman, he imagined, Gil will bring his daughter by the hand and beg me to marry her.
And what will I say?
“What, you want me to marry your daughter what stinks of fish?”
He’d laugh and turn the man out.
And then I’ll be alone again, he thought.
So if not the fishmonger’s daughter, who will I marry?
There were plenty to choose from-daughters of old warlords who were penniless, daughters of wealthy merchants who would hope to add a title to their fortunes.
Why not marry the best? he wondered.
And suddenly he dared imagine the impossible.
The best. The best would be well bred and wealthy. She would be beautiful to look upon, but she would also be generous and good of heart. She would love him, and not disrespect him for coming from a low breed.
A young woman came to mind. He had never thought of her before, not in that way. Her exalted station had been too far above his. Her name was Siyaddah, and her father was the Emir of Dalharristan.
She had spoken to Alun often, for as a young woman she had loved to come to the kennels and play with the new pups, petting them and bringing scraps from the kitchens and bones for the pups to wrestle over.
Siyaddah had the brownest eyes, almost as black as her hair. They sparkled when she laughed, and her skin was dark and silky.
She had always treated Alun as more than a slave. She had laughed with him as if he were a friend, and once she even laid her hand upon his arm; highborn women almost never did that. He had wondered if she had feelings for him.
Once my rank is secure, Alun thought, I could ask her father for her hand in marriage. He won’t go for it. But if he said no, what would I have lost?
He strongly doubted that the Emir would say yes. There were rumors that he was saving his daughter, that he hoped to marry her to High King Urstone’s son.
Alun thought, But that will never hap-
A huge shadow fell over him, followed by the pounding of heavy wings. Alun’s heart leapt in his chest. He suddenly felt as a mouse must feel when touched by the shadow of the hawk.
He peered up in terror and saw some beast. It wasn’t a drake. This thing had vast translucent wings of palest gold that rippled in the air like sheets moved by the wind.
A wyrmling Seccath! Alun thought, fear rising in his throat. Alun had seen a Seccath only once, nine years ago, when he was but a boy. The High King himself had captured it and brought it to Castle Luciare, where it was stripped of its wings and held prisoner deep in the dungeons, even to this day.
The Seccath winged its way straight toward Daylan Hammer, and Alun had the forethought to realize that the immortal had no weapon to protect him.
Just as Alun was about to shout a warning, the Seccath folded its wings and dropped to the tower wall, opposite from Daylan Hammer.
“Well met,” Daylan Hammer said.
The wyrmling settled onto the wall. She was a pale-eyed woman with blond hair shaved short and with huge bones. Her neck and forehead were tattooed with cruel glyphs, prayers to Lady Despair. There was no beauty in her that Daylan could see, unless one considered that brutality could be considered comely.
Not for the first time, Daylan considered how decency and innocence were inextricably mingled with a human’s concept of beauty. On almost every world he had visited, in any nation, a person whose face was smooth, childlike-innocent, and compassionate-was considered more beautiful than one who was not. Not so among the wyrmlings.
Indeed, it was believed that the wyrmlings’ ancestors had been human, but
they had been bred for war over so many generations that they had evolved into something else. So there was an inbred cruelty and wariness to the woman-a rough and hawkish face, a scowl to the mouth, blazing eyes, and a wary stance, as if she only hoped for a chance to gut him.
Her artificial wings folded around her now, making her look as if she were draped in translucent yellow robes. Behind her, the dying sun hung just above the horizon like a bloody eye.
The wyrmling peered at Daylan, cold and mocking in her rage. The wyrmlings could not abide light. It pained their eyes and burned their skin.
Humans feared the darkness, and so they had agreed to meet here now, in the half-light.
The sight of her sent a shudder through Daylan. Thoughts of compassion, honor, decency-all were alien to her, incomprehensible. The maggot that infected her soul saw to that.
“Well met?” she asked, as if trying to make sense of the greeting. “Why would it be well to meet me? Your body trembles. It knows the gaze of a predator when it sees it. Yet you think it well to meet me?”
Daylan chuckled. “It is only a common greeting among my people.”
“Is it?” the wyrmling demanded, as if he lied.
“So,” Daylan said, “you asked for proof that your princess is still alive.”
“Can you name the day she drew her first blood?”
It was a difficult question, Daylan knew. The wyrmlings kept great beasts to use in times of war-the world wyrms. Among wyrmlings, time was measured in “rounds” which lasted for three years-the length of time that it took between breeding cycles for a female wyrm. Each day in a round had its own name. Thus, there were over a thousand days in a round, and if Daylan had to lie, he would have had a slim chance of guessing the right day.
“Princess Kan-hazur says that she drew first blood upon the day of Bitter Moon.” That was all that he needed to say, but he wanted to offer ample proof. “It was in the two hundred and third year of the reign of the Dread Emperor Zul-torac. She fought in the Vale of Pearls against the he-beast Nezyallah, and broke his neck with her club.”
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