It was wearisome, trudging behind that wagon, when Vulgnash could so easily take to the sky. But the wizard inside the stone box was subtle, and Vulgnash could not leave him unguarded.
Several times throughout the night, Vulgnash drained the heat from the boy, drawing him into a state near death, then keeping him there for long periods, letting him wake just enough to regain some strength before drawing him back down again.
Vulgnash wearied of the job.
By dawn I could be in Rugassa, he thought, studying the branding irons, uncovering their secrets, unlocking their powers.
But no. I am condemned to walk, to guard the little wizard.
Vulgnash would do his mistress’s bidding. He was flawless in the performance of his duties. He always had been.
But how he hated it.
So they marched through the night, through a fair land where the stubble of wild grasses shone white beneath the silver moon, through the night where forbidding woods cast long shadows as they marched over the hills.
There was little risk of attack. These lands had been taken by the wyrmlings years ago, and the warrior clans had long since lost the will to fight for their return.
Vulgnash saw nothing in the night but a pair of wild oxen; some stags drinking beside a pool; and a young wolf prowling in a meadow, jumping about as it hunted for mice.
It was only when they spotted a village in the distance that Vulgnash took pause. It was a village full of new humans, of runts. Their cottages looked restful, lying in the fold of a vale. Smoke curled up from last night’s cooking fires, and he could see goats and cattle in their little stick pens.
Vulgnash had not given much thought to the runts. The wizard he had caught was one of them, and he wondered now if perhaps some of the wizard’s kin might not come looking for him.
As a precaution, he stopped the wagon. “Go down to that village,” he told his warriors, “and kill everyone.”
He stood guard as the wyrmlings loped off across fields that glowed golden in the moonlight. A couple of dogs began wagging their tails and barking as the wyrmlings approached, but their barking grew frantic as they realized that some new terror was approaching.
A human man came to a door to investigate, just as the wyrmling warriors approached; a wyrmling hurled a spear through him.
Then the warriors were on the houses. They did not go in through the doors. They kicked down walls and threw off the roofs. They screamed and roared like wild beasts, striking terror into the hearts of the little ones.
And then they ran down anyone who tried to escape.
They made sport of the slaughter, ripping off the legs of living men, pummeling mothers into the dirt, searching through the rubble of broken houses to find the babes, then squeezing them as if they were small birds.
In all, it took less than fifteen minutes, but it was time well spent.
Vulgnash felt as if he had accomplished something.
They ran afterward, for more than an hour through the night, the warriors’ hearts pumping hard from bloodlust, until they reached an old abandoned hill fort. It had a single watchtower that looked out over the rolling hills, and a great room and a kitchen that had once garrisoned troops. Beyond that, there was nothing more but some moldering sheds, their wooden roofs weighed down by moss and blackberry vines.
The birds had begun to sing and the stars were dying in the heavens. The fort looked like a good place to camp for the day. In fact, there was no other place on the trail behind and no likely spot ahead for many hours. The old fort was Vulgnash’s only choice.
23
BENEATH THE UGLY STONES
A scholar once told me that he could prove that men of renown lived longer than others. The wise woman of the village, the hero of battles, the acknowledged master of his craft—whether it be a baker or smith or only a chandler. Each lived an average of seven years longer than others of their kind.
“The secret,” he said, “is praise. We all need it. It is a tonic that restores both the body and soul. Children need it to grow up to be healthy.
“Unfortunately, the stupid and the wicked need it too, and so often are undeserving. Look to the motives of those who commit crimes, and all too often they do it hoping to raise themselves in the esteem of others.
“And it is also for the praise of others that good men do well. Thus our need for praise can prod us down the path of goodness, or onto the avenues of evil.”
—the Wizard Sisel
“King Urstone is groping for eels,” Warlord Madoc told his sons that night. “This plan of his—rescuing this otherworld wizard—it’s a vain hope. He is only forestalling the inevitable.”
“The death of his son?” Drewish asked.
“Aye, the death of his son,” Madoc said. The army had bedded down in the caves, but Madoc and his lads were in a small vale beneath the shadows of three huge sandstone rocks, each looking like some monstrous face, twisted and grotesque.
“You would think that Urstone would have forgotten him by now,” Connor said. “You would think that he’d have given him up for dead.”
“Mmmmm,” Madoc grunted in agreement. “It’s a point of honor with him. He wants to be seen as a man of compassion. He can’t let it be said of him that the wyrmlings love their children more than he does. It would make him somehow … callous, tainted.”
“Do you think the wyrmlings do love their children more than we do?” Connor asked.
Madoc scratched his painted chin thoughtfully. “A mother bear will do anything to protect her cubs. A wyrmling is no different. They have the instinct, and they’ve got it strong. Zul-torac is as bloody-handed a wyrmling that has ever led a war, but still he loves his daughter, and she is made all the more precious by the fact that he can bear no more.”
“Can a wyrmling really love?” Connor asked.
“Not in the way that humans do,” Madoc said. “But they have feelings—greed, fear. But wyrmlings do not love, they merely rut. They give their children as servants to Lady Despair in an unending succession, and so long as their lines continue, they believe that she will not punish them in the afterlife.”
Madoc didn’t know much about such things. He had never really studied wyrmling philosophy. He was only repeating snatches of lore that were repeated around the campfire. He had never quite understood why the wyrmlings failed to wipe out Caer Luciare. Kan-hazur was just a worthless wyrmling child in his estimation. It only made sense that Zul-torac would hunt down the last of mankind, even if he had to hack his way through his own daughter to do so.
Yet for a dozen years now, the wyrmlings had let the city go. Never had it been attacked in force. The only incursions came from wyrmling harvesters that haunted the wood and fields outside the castle, taking only the unwary.
Yet Madoc had developed a theory as to why the wyrmlings didn’t attack, a theory so monstrous, he had never dared to speak of it openly, a theory that had been borne out—in part. Only now did he voice his concerns.
“My sons,” he said. “There is a good reason that the wyrmlings have spared us. They need mankind. Their harvesters need our glands to make their foul elixirs. King Urstone has never thought this through, but the wyrmlings would not dare to kill us all. Instead, they let us live, like pigs fattening in a pen, waiting for the slaughter. It isn’t our hostage that has saved us for so long. It is … necessity.”
Drewish smiled and gazed up into the air. Obviously, the idea amused him. “If we are but animals waiting to be harvested, why not cage us?”
Connor laughed. “Because it takes work to feed a pig, to keep him caged. Why not let the pigs feed themselves?”
“The caged animal is easier to kill.”
“There’s no sport to hunting a pig in its pen,” Madoc said with a smile. “And the wyrmlings are nothing, if not lovers of blood sport.”
It was true. The wyrmlings were bred for blood-lust. Without men to hunt, they would quickly begin slaughtering themselves. Madoc knew that the wyrmlings could indeed harvest gl
ands from their own kind—but that would soon lead to bloody war.
Connor seemed uncertain. “Are you sure this is true?”
“Certain,” Madoc said. “My men captured a harvester last winter. It was only with fire and the tongs that I could pull the truth from him.
“And five weeks ago, we took another, and did him until he told the precise same tale.”
Madoc took a deep breath, gave the boys a moment while he let the information settle in. “Now, there are these little folk abroad. A village here, a village there. How many of them could there be?”
“Thousands,” Drewish guessed.
But Madoc gave him a knowing look and shook his head. “Millions, tens of millions. On the other world, there was a great kingdom in the north, the land of Internook, that was filled to overflowing. To the east, there were hordes of millions in Indhopal. In this world, there was a rare metal, used to make magic branding irons called forcibles, and with these, the lords of the land would take attributes—strength, speed, intelligence, and beauty from their vassals. Such lords became men of unimaginable power.”
Madoc held up a bit of red stone, showed it the boys in the starlight.
“What is that?” Drewish asked.
“Corpuscite,” Madoc said, “what the little folk called blood metal in their own tongue. It is used to make forcibles. It was rare in their world. But it is not so rare in ours. There is a hill of it near Caer Luciare. Already I have miners digging it up.”
He let the implication sink in. From Drewish’s unappreciative look, it was obvious that the boy didn’t understand the full implications of the discovery, but soon enough, he would.
Madoc was quickly learning that there were others like himself, hundreds who had lived separate lives on both worlds. Soon enough, he would find someone among the clan who had been a facilitator on otherworld, a mage trained to transfer endowments, and then Madoc would be in business.
“It is only a matter of time before the wyrmlings discover this, too,” Madoc said. “It is only a matter of time before they realize what our warriors might do if we unite these small folk under a single banner and lead them to war. It is only a matter of time, before they realize the threat that we pose, and try to smash Caer Luciare into oblivion!”
“What shall we do?” Connor asked.
Now was the moment for Madoc to speak his mind openly. “King Urstone is a fool, too weak to lead this people. So long as his son is held captive, he won’t risk attacking Rugassa. We must … eliminate the king.”
“How?” Drewish asked with a tone of relish in his voice.
“In the heat of the battle, tomorrow, when no one is looking,” Madoc said, “it would be a good time for a spear-thrust to go astray.”
Connor seemed shocked by the idea. He had always been a good lad, in Madoc’s opinion. Sometimes, such decency can be a fault.
“Stick with me,” Madoc said, “and someday soon, you shall rule a nation.”
“Which one of us?” Drewish asked.
Connor turned to him in obvious confusion. “Me, of course. I’m the oldest.”
“And I’m better able to lead,” Drewish countered, leaping to his feet, a dirk ringing from the scabbard at his knee.
Connor yelped, leapt back, and drew his own dagger. His jaw tightened and his muscles flexed as he prepared for battle.
Madoc stood up, placing himself between the two, and glared at Drewish dangerously, as if begging him to attack.
“Two kingdoms,” Madoc promised. “One for each of you.”
24
THE ESCAPE
I often tell myself that I should never underestimate the goodness of the human spirit. Time after time, I have found that I can count on the mercies and tenderness of others. Perhaps it is because I constantly look for and nourish the good in others that I am too often dismayed to find abundant evil in them, too.
—Daylan Hammer
Daylan climbed the rope up to the grate and clung for a long moment as he listened for guards. There was only the sound of the wyrmling princess pacing in her cell.
There were no other prisoners so far down in the dungeon. Daylan had watched for them as he was borne through the hallway. So it was with little concern of being discovered that he felt around at the lock.
The good king had left him a key. It turned easily, and Daylan Hammer was free of the oubliette.
He climbed out, and stepped on a bundle on the floor. In it, he found his war hammer, a dagger, a flask and some food. The king hadn’t had the foresight to leave Daylan any clothing. He was still naked, covered with filth.
He carried his few goods past some cells, squinting as he peered in, somehow hoping that there might be food or clothing in one. Straw in the corners served as the only mattress that a prisoner down here might get, and with no other recourse, he finally went into an open cell and used some straw to scrape off the muck.
It didn’t help much.
I didn’t escape the oubliette, he decided. I brought half of it with me.
He imagined trying to break free of the city, a naked man covered in dung.
That will cause no small stir, he thought, fighting back a grim smile.
When he finished, he went to the cell of Princess Kan-hazur. A guttering torch revealed her. She was hunched in a corner, in a fetal position, with her elbows on her knees and her hands wrapped over her face. She peered at him distastefully from the corner of an eye. “You here to rape me?”
“No,” Daylan said as he tried his key in the lock. He felt a sense of relief as it clicked open. As he had hoped, the king had provided a master key to the prison.
“Too bad,” Kan-hazur said, “I could use a little sport. And from the looks of you, that’s all you could offer.”
Daylan did not smile at her dry wit. He was so befouled, she could not possibly have wanted him. She was only making jest of him.
“Where did you learn to talk so filthily?” Daylan asked.
“At my mother’s breast,” Kan-hazur said, “but nine years in this stink-hole has perfected my skills.”
Daylan searched her room. There was a bucket of water on the floor.
“I’ve come to rescue you,” Daylan said. He picked up the pail, let the water stream over him slowly, and washed off the filth as well as he could.
Kan-hazur stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not a fool. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true,” Daylan said. “I’ve set up an exchange of hostages—you for Prince Urstone.”
He had expected her to smile at this point, to weep or show some gratitude. But she merely glared at him and refused to move.
“Lady Despair teaches that the sole purpose of life is to teach you humility,” Kan-hazur said after a long moment. “And true humility only comes when you reach the realization that no one—mother, father, lover, ally, the Powers, or any force of nature—gives a shit whether you live or die.
“I have mastered humility.”
Daylan considered the implications of those words. The princess didn’t believe that her father valued her life, not enough to give up his own hostage, certainly. Was she right? The tone of her words was forthright. She was convinced.
“Believe it or not,” Daylan said, “I care if you live or die. I wish you well.”
“You don’t even know me,” Kan-hazur countered. “I am a wyrmling, and I am your enemy.”
“On some worlds,” Daylan said softly, “it is taught that the sole purpose of life is to master love, and the epitome of love is to love one’s enemies, to wish well those that hate you, to serve those who would do you harm. It is only through such love that we can turn enemies into allies, and at last into friends. I have spent millennia mastering love.”
Kan-hazur laughed him to scorn.
“Come,” Daylan said, reaching for her hand.
She refused to give it to him.
“Please?”
“You’re taking me to my death,” she said, “whether you know it or not
. My father would lop my head off in front of you, just to prove how little he cares for me.”
“That’s a lie, whether you know it or not. Even a wyrmling cares for his child. It is in your blood. Your presence here has kept this citadel safe for nine years. If your father cared so little for you, he could have proved it a thousand times over, by attacking.”
Kan-hazur shook her head.
“Even if he does not love you,” Daylan said, “he has forsaken his flesh, becoming as the Death Lords. He cannot sire another heir.” The princess showed surprise, and hope flickered in her eyes. “Come, what have you got to lose?” Daylan asked. “We can stop in the market, get you some good meat before we go, let you feel the wind in your face and see the stars tonight. Even if your father comes to kill you, as you believe, wouldn’t it be worth the trip, just for one last pleasure?”
“Don’t trade me,” Kan-hazur said, suddenly fearful. “Take me outside the city, and let me go in the wild. I can find my way back to civilization.”
Daylan understood. By running away, escaping back to her own kind, she could start a new life. She might even be heralded as a hero for having escaped. But if she stayed, if he tried to trade her, she was truly afraid that her father would make an example of her punishing her for her weakness.
“I won’t lie to you,” Daylan said. “If I let you go, I would lose any hope of winning back Prince Urstone.”
“Why?”
“Because, as I said, I have negotiated an exchange of hostages.”
“No,” she said. “Why won’t you lie to me? People always lie. Even humans. Lies are … necessary.”
He understood what she meant. Most people lied, trying to hide what they felt or believed about others. Such dishonesty was the foundation of civility, and Daylan agreed that such lies were necessary.
But some people lied only to manipulate. A merchant who hated a client might greet him as if he were an old friend, feigning camaraderie while hiding his own personal distaste.
And to gain greater advantage, he might even deceive the client, lying about the value of merchandise, or when delivery dates could be met.
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