Worldbinder

by David Farland

  “Take three to a man,” Vulgnash told him, placing the bag in the captain’s palm, “no more.”

  The wyrmling commander smiled. He and his men would die, but it would be a glorious death, fighting gleefully in a haze of bloodlust, lost to all mortal care.

  “Shall I have the men kill the captives,” the commander asked, “as a precaution?”

  Normally, that is what Vulgnash would have done. He would have made sure that no matter what effort the humans spent, they would lose in the end.

  But his master’s command was upon him, and Vulgnash always executed her commands to perfection.

  “No, leave them,” he said in resignation. “If the warriors win through, I may have to come back and take them again.”

  They’re going to kill me, Alun thought, as he raced along the road. Connor and Drewish are going to kill me now. Don’t let the dogs get behind me.

  He worried about Connor and Drewish. The fact that wyrmling warriors might be on the road ahead, led by the immortal Knights Eternal, somehow did not seem as sinister.

  Of course, he was falling-down weary.

  His legs had turned to mush, and he could run no more. He was wheezing like a dying man, unable to get enough air no matter what, and chills ran through him while beads of sweat stood out cold upon his brow.

  They charged up a hill through the woods, and Alun stumbled and sprawled on his face. For a moment he lay on the ground, laid out like a dead toad, and he was happy, for so long as he was on the blessed ground, he could rest.

  “Up with you,” a soldier chided, grabbing him by the arm and yanking. Another soldier took him by the other arm, and soon they were carrying him, each of them cruelly holding an arm. “Move those legs, damn it. There are wyrmlings ahead, and we need you to fight them all for us.”

  Alun knew that he would be no good in this fight. There had been three harvester spikes in the little packet that he’d found, but he had dropped that somewhere back at the fort. He’d searched the floor for it, but never found the spikes. He felt dirty and shameful for having used them at all. They were, after all, made from glands taken from folks captured at Caer Luciare. Folks like Sir Croft, or that little boy, Dake, that had disappeared last month. The harvester spikes were an affront to all decency. Yet now as he went into battle, he yearned for the thrill he’d felt before. Without them, he would be lost.

  Suddenly there was shouting up ahead, “We’ve cornered them! We’ve got them!”

  And the soldiers went charging up the hill, trees whisking by on either side, bearing Alun like a marionette.

  Alun hoped that the battle would be over by the time that he reached the spot, but they came upon an old hill fort formed from great gray slabs of basalt. Trees grew up around it, and brush and blackberry vines, leaving it a ruin, hidden in gloom.

  Indeed, the gloom grew thick around it, so dark that one could almost not see the door. The harder that Alun peered, the deeper the shadows seemed to thicken, until the door was just a yawning pit in the blackness.

  Even as he watched, the darkness seemed to readjust. Shadows that should have fallen from the east now twisted, coming from the north or west.

  Whatever hid in that fort, it did not want to be seen.

  A handcart sat out front, one of the heavy kind that wyrmlings used to haul equipment to war, with huge wheels all bound in iron. A stone box lay spilled beside it, tossed on its side, the heavy stone lid lying upon the ground.

  There was no sign of the hostages, no sign of battle. The old fort was deathly quiet. The soldiers surrounded it, and the High King and his counselors stood peering at it, considering.

  “Shall we put the torch to it,” Madoc asked, “smoke them out?”

  “No,” King Urstone said. “It might harm the hostages. Nor can we batter down the wall or risk them in any manner.” He nodded toward a captain. “Take down a good stout tree. We’ll need a ram to get through that door.”

  He turned and searched the crowd, until his eyes came upon Alun, who was bent over, panting from exertion. The king strode over to him, and there was hardly a sheen of sweat upon his forehead. He peered at Alun with deep blue eyes, and asked, “Alun, may I have use of the sword?”

  Alun drew it from the scabbard and was dismayed to see that the sword, which had reflected light like a clear lake this morning, was dulled by a layer of rust.

  “Milord,” he apologized. “I’m sorry. I should have oiled it.”

  “It’s not your fault, Alun,” the king said gently.

  He turned to the troops.

  “Gentlemen, there are wyrmlings in this fortress, and I mean to have their heads. Most of you know that the Knights Eternal are most likely holed up with them, like a pair of badgers. We’ll have a hard time of it, digging them out. But if all goes well this day, we shall rid ourselves of the Knights Eternal once and for all.”

  There was a tremendous roar as men raised their axes and cheered.

  Vulgnash leaned over the bound bodies of the small ones. He stood in what had once been a kitchen. There was a chopping block in one corner, for the hacking of meat, and a pair of stone hearths to one side. At his back was a window that had been boarded up long ago. He had checked it, in order to make sure that there was no clear passage. Blackberry vines grew beyond the window to a height of twenty feet, blocking out the light.

  Outside, the sound of chopping stopped. The warrior clan had their battering ram now, and soon would be at the door.

  His wyrmling guard stood ready to receive them.

  Outside, there was a shout. “You in there: release your prisoners and we will let you go free.”

  Vulgnash knew a lie when he heard it. The humans were only seeking assurance that the small ones yet lived.

  He considered taking the small wizard outside, holding him up with a knife to his throat, letting them know the danger of pressing this attack. But too many things could go wrong. The wizard could grasp the sunlight, use it as a weapon. Or the enemy might fire an arrow, killing the hostage, and leaving Vulgnash to suffer his master’s wrath.

  So he crouched and drew his blade. All the while, his mind was occupied, reaching out to the shadows, drawing them close, wrapping them around the old hill fort.

  There was a crashing at the door, and painful light cut through the room.

  “Now,” Vulgnash shouted, and his warriors shoved the harvester spikes into their necks. Instantly the bloodlust was upon them, and they began to howl and shriek like creatures damned as they lunged from the shadows.

  The warrior clansmen charged the breach, fear in their pale eyes. Their breath fogged in the cold air of the room, for Vulgnash had blessed this place with the touch of the tomb.

  The wyrmlings grabbed the first warriors to breach the door, long pale arms snaking out of the darkness, and each used a meat hook in one hand to drag a warrior back while hacking with the other—thus clearing the path for more victims. A volley of arrows sped through the doorway, taking one of his over-eager wyrmlings in the eye. The big fellow fought bravely for several seconds before he staggered to his knees. A human lunged through the door and split his skull like kindling with a single blow from the ax.

  With the first blood spilled and the first death, the ground was now blessed, and Vulgnash felt his own powers begin to gape wide, like the mouth of a pit.

  The first wave of warriors burst into the room in earnest and found themselves lost in the suffocating darkness, unable to spot a target before they were slaughtered.

  The dark fortress filled with screams.

  Rhianna kicked Fallion’s leg, and Fallion came awake slowly. They were lost in blackness as the screams of warriors and the clash of arms rang out.

  For long minutes, Fallion lay, desperately trying to clear his head.

  The sorcerer had his hands full for the moment, and Fallion reached out with his mind, questing for a source of heat. He could feel the bodies of creatures living and dying nearby, but dared not draw from them. To do so might aler
t the sorcerer. Fallion realized now that his questing touch had alerted the sorcerer in times past.

  But there was a roof to this building, a stone roof, and the sun had been shining full upon it all through the morning. The warm stone held the heat.

  Ever so carefully, Fallion reached out with his mind, searching, and began to draw the heat into him.

  There is a saying among wyrmlings. “In a well-built fort, a single warrior should be able to hold off a thousand.”

  Vulgnash knew of such fortresses—the sea fort at Golgozar, the old castle upon Mount Aznunc. This was not such a fort.

  Still, as the first wave of human warriors faded, he was proud of his warriors. Only one wyrmling had fallen in battle, while dozens of the war clan lay slaughtered upon the floor.

  “Drag back the bodies,” he shouted during the lull in battle. “Leave a clear killing field.”

  His wyrmlings complied as best they could, throwing the bodies back, heaping them to the roof. But they weren’t able to finish the job before the second wave burst upon them.

  A dozen men rushed the door, each bearing torches, war cries ringing from their throats. The light cut through the shadows, and in that instant, his wyrmlings were vulnerable. The gloom lessened, and the humans launched themselves into battle.

  One of his warriors took a killing blow. An ax slashed through his armor, and guts came tumbling out. But the bloodlust was upon the wyrmling warrior, and he fought on. Another took a spear to the neck, and too much blood was flowing. A third got cut down through the knee.

  Still his men fought—not with bravery, but with madness in their eyes. Vulgnash threw his energy into deepening the gloom, and men screamed and died in the smoky air. The smell of blood and gore perfumed the old fortress. Corpses littered the floor; blood pooled beneath the wyrmling’s feet.

  Vulgnash used his powers to feed the frenzy. Death was in the air. Death surrounded them. As one human warrior took a blow, the ax slashed through the armor and grazed his chest.

  Vulgnash stretched out a hand, and the skin flayed wide. Ribs cracked and a lung was exposed. The human cried out and fell gasping to the floor before a man could touch him.

  His wyrmling warriors began to roar in celebration, dancing upon the bodies of the dead.

  Only three of his men had expired, and two hundred humans lay in their gore.

  Death ruled here.

  There was no time to rest before the third wave hit.

  A hail of arrows announced the attack, came blurring through the doorway. Even in the shadows they found some marks. His men could no longer retreat far from the door, for their path was blocked by the dead.

  Five good wyrmling warriors took arrows. Three of them sank slowly to their knees.

  And the humans did not rush in. They gave the arrows time to do their work.

  The wyrmling soldiers roared in frustration, screaming curses and insults at the humans, trying to lure them in. But the human forces were well trained, and did not respond to the taunts.

  It was fifteen long minutes before the third wave came. The warriors rushed in so silently, Vulgnash did not hear them coming. They came with torches this time; every man among them had a torch.

  Vulgnash used his powers quickly, snuffed the torches out, sent the smoke circling into the lungs of the human warriors.

  The humans gasped and choked, struggling for breath as they fought.

  And the slaughter began in earnest.

  Vulgnash hardly needed warriors to fight for him now. The deaths of so many men, the fleeting life energies, only fed his powers. He felt invincible.

  Warriors rushed in, and Vulgnash did not wait for his men to attack. He stretched out his hand, and rents appeared in men’s flesh, long slashes that looked as if beasts had torn them.

  The room was filled with warriors with torches, a mob of them, and Vulgnash pointed to one of his fallen wyrmlings and uttered a curse. The wyrmling’s body exploded, and giant maggots erupted from its gut, raining down through the room.

  The human warriors shouted as the maggots began to eat their flesh.

  Vulgnash felt something odd. The room was colder than a tomb, colder even than it should be.

  He sent his mind questing, found the little human wizard stealing heat.

  Vulgnash rushed back, stepped on the wizard’s neck, and reached down, sucking the heat from him. It came snaking out in a fiery cord.

  But the wizard’s distraction had served its purpose.

  At that instant, more torch-men rushed into the room.

  His wyrmlings shrieked, blinded by the light, and fought on. They had fought grandly, as harvesters will, leaping into battle, axes hacking off heads and chopping through armor. They had roared and fought when they’d taken a dozen wounds, but it was a losing battle.

  Vulgnash whirled and sent the fire that he had drawn from Fallion hurling into the darkened room. The humans screamed and died in a rush of flames, as did the last of his own wyrmling warriors.

  “See what your insolence has cost?” Vulgnash raged at Fallion.

  The humans retreated from the fire, fleeing the fortress.

  The last of his wyrmlings were left gasping, propping themselves up on their knees, struggling to stay alive. First there were three, then two, and at last one sank to the ground with a groan.

  Vulgnash was left alone in this place of death.

  He peered at the lengthening shadows. The warrior clan had been at the attack for an hour. He’d held them off for that long. But sundown was still many hours away.

  “I saw only one of the Knights Eternal,” the captain reported. “He hides at the back, in the doorway to the kitchen. I think that he has the hostages there.”

  High King Urstone sat on a rock, sharpening the other-worlder’s long sword. Oiling and sharpening seemed to do little good. It was rusting even as he worked.

  “Even one Knight Eternal is more than anyone can safely deal with,” the Wizard Sisel said. “And I fear that this is Vulgnash himself.”

  “It’s as cold as the tomb in there,” the captain said. “My veins feel like they are frozen.”

  The captain grimaced in pain, reached down his shirt, and brought out a large maggot. It was perhaps three inches long and as thick as a woodworm. Even as he held it, the maggot swiveled its head this way and that, struggling to bite him. The captain hurled it to the ground and gave it the heel of his boot.

  “Even to get close to Vulgnash brings a small death,” Sisel told the king. “You must be wary.”

  “He’s not the worst of Zul-torac’s terrors,” the king said.

  The captain cleared his throat. “One more thing. Watch your footing in there. The floors are slick. He has turned that place into a slaughterhouse.”

  “Not a slaughterhouse,” Sisel said, “a temple—where the high priest of death administers the ordinances of death.”

  King Urstone smiled weakly. This wasn’t a task that he relished doing. Hundreds of his forces were gone, and he still hadn’t gotten the badger out of its den.

  “Do me a favor, captain. Have some of your men go out back. There should be a door to the kitchen, or a window at least. Get them open.”

  “The brush is thick back there,” the captain said. “It will take a while to get through it.”

  “Make lots of noise,” the king said. “I could use a distraction.”

  King Urstone peered up. The Emir stood over him, holding the other-worlder’s staff, inspecting it. Of all the weapons, this one alone had remained untouched by the Knight Eternals’ curse.

  “Do you think that will do you any good?” Urstone asked.

  “I hope so,” the Emir said. He would bear it into battle. He was as faithful and capable a warrior as King Urstone had ever known, a true friend.

  Madoc himself bore the dainty little sword, while two dozen archers had each commandeered a single arrow from the other-worlder’s quiver.

  “Right then,” the king said. “Let’s go.”

&nbs
p; He gave one final look to the Wizard Sisel and asked, “Is there a last blessing you might bestow upon me?”

  The wizard got a bemused expression, stood for a long moment as if trying to recall something he’d heard in the distant past. King Urstone had expected no boon, but he could see the wizard’s mind at work.

  There is something, King Urstone thought, some lore that he recalls from the otherworld.

  “Don’t go into battle like this,” Sisel said at last. “Don’t go in haste, or fear, or rage.” He glanced up to the trees. “Take a look around. Look at the trees, the sunlight, the grass.” He fell silent, and King Urstone could hear the sound of woodpeckers in the distance, a squirrel chattering, and after a moment, the squawk of a jay. “This is a lush land, full of life. Look at this fortress. In better times, it could be put to use as an inn. It would be a pleasant place to stop and have a meal.

  “But Vulgnash has turned it into a tomb.

  “Light and life oppose him. In there, he hides from them. You must draw upon these, if you will defeat him.”

  The wizard reached into his pocket, drew out some pea pods that he might have harvested from his garden. “Take these with you. There is life in them. And after this meeting, you would do well to plant the seeds somewhere.”

  King Urstone noted that the wizard called this a meeting, not a battle.

  King Urstone smiled. It sounded like madness. Taking seeds into battle?

  The wizard saw his look, and gently chided him. “Don’t put such faith in your arms. They will do you no good in there. How many strong men have died this day, putting their faith in such weapons? And don’t go prepared to die. Nearly every warrior who confronts death prepares himself to die. Look inside yourself and find hope. Can you think of no great reason to live?”

  Only last night, King Urstone had succumbed to despair and had been prepared to go into battle and lose his life. But then he had learned of the forcibles, and of a plan to save his son, and of the small folk who now inhabited the land. All of these things were renewing a hope that he had thought long dead. “Your words to me last night gave me hope,” King Urstone said, “great hope indeed, and a reason to live.”