Tonight my son will be free, he thought.
“Good,” Sisel said, reaching up and clutching the king’s arm in token of friendship. “Then go now, not as a servant of death, but as a minister of life.” He looked pointedly at Madoc, “Leave these others behind. You have no need of them.”
King Urstone did not charge in as the soldiers had. He was not going to run blindly into a trap. Nor would he shirk his duty, or stumble on quavering knee.
He strode resolutely to the mouth of the fortress, of the tomb, and planted himself just outside the broken door.
His breath streamed cold from his mouth, and his blood turned to ice water in his veins. He could see heaped bodies lying in a pool of black blood. The air smelled thick with death.
A shadow filled the room before him, a black mass. He could not make out a human form, but he could hear labored breathing, and he could sense a monstrous evil hidden within.
The king advanced toward the doorway, and Vulgnash caught sight of his weapon, the other-worldly steel gleaming red in a shaft of sunlight.
Even that brief image undid him. Vulgnash held back a shriek, half blinded by pain, and threw a hand in the air to shield his eyes.
He looked at the king, and heard voices. For half an instant, he had a vision of King Urstone as a young man, kneeling upon one knee, surrounded by his warlords. Each of them laid his left hand upon the young king’s head, and a wizard spoke for them all. “Upon you we place the hope of all our people. Though you be king, you are a servant to us all.”
There was great power in such words, whether the humans knew it or not. Vulgnash could feel the hopes of many surrounding the king, shielding him like a battle guard.
Vulgnash stretched out his hand, hoping to rend the king from a distance, but his curse could not touch the man.
And there was life all around him, white-hot life. He carried seeds upon him.
The king halted, just outside the door, and planted his long sword in the ground, then stood with his hands folded over the pommel. The blade was angled so that red sunlight cut through the blackness, causing Vulgnash great pain.
What is this? Vulgnash wondered. Where did the humans learn such lore?
“Vulgnash,” King Urstone called out. “Show yourself.”
Vulgnash held to his shadows.
The king hesitated for a long moment, and then shouted, “Vulgnash, I offer you your life.”
Vulgnash laughed, “That is not in your power.”
Suddenly, a wizard stood at the king’s back, a plump man with a sun-burned face and a brown beard going gray. He too bore seeds upon him, and the life within him was like a white-hot fire. “But it is in mine,” the wizard said. “Come out, and I will heal you. I can give you life, fresh and clean, unlike any that you have ever known. You will be a slave to no one. I can give you your own life. I cannot remove the wyrm that gnaws upon your soul. Only you can do that. A life devoted to clean thoughts and good deeds will drive it out.”
Could it be? Vulgnash wondered. Could I be granted life, after more than five thousand years?
“I rejected life long ago,” Vulgnash hissed. “I reject it now.”
The king lowered his eyelids in sign of acceptance. “If not life, then I can give you oblivion with this sword,” he intoned softly. “Eternal sleep and forgetfulness.”
Vulgnash drew himself up, and for the first time in centuries, he felt disconcerted. Something was wrong. Normally, his victims were filled with fear, an emotion that worked to Vulgnash’s benefit.
But this king knew better than to hope to slay a Knight Eternal in anger. Such hopes were false hopes, and would only have worked to his demise.
Yet he advanced anyway, without fear, and offered Vulgnash something more terrible than death—life. He carried seeds upon him, and the hopes of his people, and he bore an accursed sword.
It was as if Vulgnash stood before some mage king who had walked straight out of some long forgotten legend. King Urstone’s calm demeanor hinted at a tremendous reserve of power.
Against such a man, I dare not stand, Vulgnash decided.
With a roar he bent his will upon the door to the kitchen, used his mind to slam it shut. The door trembled in its frame and dust rained down. He bolted it, then raced to the small ones, glared down at Fallion Orden.
Everything in him warned that he should kill the young wizard. But Lady Despair had commanded otherwise.
In that moment, Vulgnash had no choice but to flee.
In the space of a heartbeat the roof exploded off the old fortress, fifteen tons of stone hurtling four hundred feet in the air.
The watchtower was thrown aside as if it were a toy, dashed aside by an angry child.
Urstone’s men screamed and raced for cover.
Fearing the worst, King Urstone charged the bolted door, hit it with his shoulder. The rotting wood gave way, and the door split cleanly down the middle.
He caught sight of his target, a hunched figure cowled in red, clutching a sword.
The Knight Eternal hunched above the prisoners, motionless.
The roof of the building crashed somewhere in the distance, shattering trees and leaving a wake of ruin.
Sunlight slanted into the building, playing upon motes of dust that danced in the air.
And the Knight Eternal merely stood there, unmoving.
King Urstone peered at him. It was no living man that he saw, only a rotting corpse with sunken eyes, wrinkled skin like aging paper.
The king plunged his sword through, just to be sure. The sword pierced easily, as if he had struck a wasp’s nest. The organs were desiccated, the bones weak with rot.
“He is not there,” the Wizard Sisel said softly. “I fear that his spirit has fled, and that we shall meet again.”
Sisel reached up and touched Vulgnash’s cheek.
“We should burn this dry husk,” one of the king’s men said. “It will make it harder for him to re-corporate.”
“That is just an old wife’s tale,” Sisel replied. “Vulgnash will just find another suitable corpse to inhabit; by sundown he will be on our trail. Still, take the heads off of the dead here in this room. We don’t want to leave bodies lying handy for him to use.”
“Take the wings off of him,” King Urstone said. “I claim them as my own.”
The wizard looked down at the four hostages, laid out on the floor. The vines that bound them suddenly loosened and fell away, as if drained of some infernal will.
The doorway behind them filled with men—warlord Madoc and the Emir and dozens of warriors.
The wizard spoke softly to the otherworlders for just a moment, then smiled and said to Fallion in his own tongue, “Fallion Orden, I’d like you to meet the grandfather that died before you were born.” He nodded toward King Urstone, then spoke in the king’s tongue, “And King Urstone, I would like you to meet the grandsons that—upon your world at least—were never born.”
27
A PAIR OF KINGS
Hope should never come unlooked-for. It should always be held in your heart. —the Wizard Sisel
“Your Highness, this is outrageous!” Warlord Madoc burst out. “Surely you don’t believe this.”
Madoc was red with rage. He had waited all morning for a chance to take the king from behind, but there had been no opportunity. The king hadn’t waded into battle until the very last, and then he had gone in alone. Madoc couldn’t put an end to him, for there would have been too many witnesses.
Now this mad wizard was trying to foist these otherworlders off as new-found heirs.
“Outrageous?” Sisel said. “I think not. Fallion Orden here is the first-born son of Gaborn Val Orden, a king of great import upon his own world. Fallion’s grandfather lost his life in battle before Fallion was born. That man was you, King Urstone, upon that shadow world. He was your shadow self. And so when the worlds combined, you had no other half to combine with.
“In the same way,” the wizard continued, “on our worl
d, their mother was lost while she still carried her firstborn in her arms.”
King Urstone bowed his head in thought. Areth’s wife had died while he was away, killed in a wyrmling assault. The wyrmlings had tried to take her prisoner, but she had slipped from their grasp and thrown herself from the tower wall, with her babe in arms. She gave her life rather than let her child be raised among the wyrmlings—for had she been taken, her royal child would have been raised as one of their slaves.
King Urstone had always felt guilty for this. I should have been there to protect her, he thought, instead of staying out for the night on patrol.
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” Drewish shouted. “They cannot be heirs to the throne. Look at them: they’re not even warriors.”
King Urstone looked down at the little humans. They squatted on rocks in the sunlight, shivering, away from the infernal slaughterhouse, and rubbed their wrists and knees, trying to get back some circulation.
One of the girls was large, though, like one of the Warrior Clan. Her face was familiar, but he could not put a name to her.
“It’s not size that is the measure of a warrior,” she said in their own tongue. “There are few among you who could best King Orden here in a fight.”
Urstone laughed at her feisty tone. “And how, sweet lady, would you know?”
“Can’t you tell?” she asked. “I am Tholna, daughter of Aaath Ulber. But I also lived upon a shadow world, where Aaath Ulber’s shadow self spent half a lifetime training young King Orden here in battle.”
The king knew Tholna. Her father was one of his two most trusted guards. But he had disappeared after the change, like so many others. King Urstone had wondered if he were even alive.
Now Tholna turned up here in the wilds, with these otherworldly humans.
He could detect no change in her. She claimed to be two people at once, but if that was so, it seemed to King Urstone that the smaller creature had been subsumed, swallowed whole.
“This is all very befuddling,” King Urstone said. “I don’t know what to say. You tell me that these are my grandsons, but common sense says that they are no get of my son’s, and therefore cannot be heirs. And yet…”
“Yet what, milord?” Madoc asked, his tone a tad too demanding.
“I must think this matter through.” To suddenly have two new heirs, that would certainly spoil Madoc’s plans for his own sons, King Urstone knew. He liked the idea of thwarting Madoc’s plans. But claiming these … otherworlders as heirs might put them in danger from Madoc and his men, and that would be unfair to the small humans.
So King Urstone was hesitant to even consider them as heirs. Besides, these children did not really come from his own blood. But he felt a connection between them that could not be denied.
There are small people in the land now, King Urstone thought. They will need a great leader. Perhaps this young wizard-king will be that leader.
Sisel took King Urstone by the bicep and said, “Your Highness, walk with me for a moment.”
In all of his life, the wizard had never touched King Urstone that way, had never dared command him. By that alone, King Urstone recognized that the wizard felt an overpowering need.
They walked up the road a few hundred feet, well out of earshot of the troops.
“Milord, you must get Prince Fallion to safety. Zul-torac has already sent the Knights Eternal to apprehend him. By sunset, Vulgnash will be making his report to the emperor, and a sea of troops will be dispatched. He will spare no resource. He will attack us in force. We have two or three days to prepare at most.”
“Are you sure?” the king asked.
“Yes. Fallion Orden is the wizard who bound our two worlds together; he represents a far greater danger than the emperor has ever faced before.”
King Urstone peered at Fallion. He was small by Warrior Clan standards. He could not have stood more than six feet, a full two feet shorter than King Urstone himself. He had a slender build, though he was well proportioned. But there was something unsettling about him, a threatening gleam to his eye, a confidence that the king associated only with the most dangerous of warlords.
“I’m beginning to like this little fellow more and more,” King Urstone said.
“Don’t make the mistake of naming him as an heir yet,” the wizard said. “It will only infuriate warlord Madoc.”
“Oh, I won’t do that,” the king said. “Not until I know him better. But I do value the lad. He cost me many good men today.”
King Urstone looked to the south. “I want to see my son, my own flesh and blood. I want to be there tonight when Daylan Hammer makes the exchange. Will you come with me and the little ones?”
It was a long hard run, even for one of the Warrior Clan—a hundred and fifty miles in less than ten hours. King Urstone would need the handcart to carry the small folk on, and he would need guards. But he believed that he could make it. He was warrior-born, after all. He just wasn’t sure if the wizard could make it. Still, Sisel seemed to have physical resources far beyond most men of his stature.
“I wouldn’t want to miss it,” the Wizard Sisel said.
28
FROM DUNGEONS TO DAYLIGHT
Ultimately in life, the heights that we attain depend upon two things: our ability to dream, and the self-control we exert to make those dreams come true.
—the Emir Tuul Ra, of Dalharristan
“Daylan, what are you doing?” Siyaddah called out in the marketplace. She was at a spice merchant’s stall, where she had been studying strands of ginseng root that were splayed out in all of their glory upon a bed of white silk.
Daylan swiveled his head, afraid that the city guards would descend upon him. Most of the inhabitants of the castle were busy working at repairs, using weights and pulleys to haul massive blocks of stone up the mountain. The work was proceeding with marvelous rapidity, for most of the damage, it seemed, was cosmetic. But even with the whole city conscripted into labor, there were people to feed and sick folks that needed tending, so some of the market stalls were open.
So vendors at their stalls were calling out to every straggling customer, while women strode around in groups, inspecting vegetables and fruits, as if it were any other day. Nature seemed not to notice his distress. Golden butterflies and white moths fluttered among the hanging gardens that were a part of every house and shop. The sweet smell of mallow and mock orange flowers wafted through the byways, perfuming the cobblestone lanes sweeter than a baby’s breath. Swallows that nested in the cliffs darted among the blue shadows of trees and shops, snapping up bees and moths, their green feathers glistening like emeralds when struck by the sun. The streets of Luciare were a riot of life.
In the meantime, Daylan grunted and struggled to shove a large wheelbarrow through the half-empty street. The wyrmling princess lay hidden inside, with cotton bags thrown over her while a few dozen chips of stone lay artfully displayed in the corners.
“What’s going on?” Siyaddah demanded. She climbed to her feet, a broad smile of greeting on her face, all filled with the irrepressible energy of a bounding puppy.
“If you must know,” Daylan hissed as she drew near, “I’m trying to escape from the dungeons.”
“Oh,” Siyaddah said, drawing back a pace, suddenly embarrassed and afraid. She studied the nearby vendors and shoppers with a fearful eye. But no one seemed to have noticed her outburst. No one had been within forty feet of them, no one except the ginseng vendor, a woman so old that she could no longer hear. Siyaddah’s had just been another voice in the throng. Suddenly the irrepressible energy was back. “So, can I help?”
Daylan could not help but smile, “Dear girl, where were you when I was chest deep in—well, unpleasantness?”
Siyaddah drew close, as if to hug him, but then caught a whiff of him and decided better.
“I’m here now,” she said. She looked down into the handcart. “Is there someone under those wraps? It looks like someone is in there!”
“Shhhh …” Daylan hissed in exasperation. “How did you recognize me? I spent hours on this disguise!”
He had indeed spent the better part of the morning sneaking around the city searching for clothes. The robe that he wore, with a peasant’s hood, hid his form and most of his face. And he’d cut his beard and grayed it with ash. He’d then hunched over, like a bent old man, as he bore his load of refuse out of the city.
“I knew you in an instant,” Siyaddah said. “You’re the shortest man around.”
“I was afraid of that,” Daylan intoned. “That’s the problem with living among giants.” He shook his head in resignation, looked down the street. The guards at the city gate were talking among themselves amiably. Some peered out beyond the gate. There was no chance of a wyrmling attack on such a bright day, and the biggest problem was likely to be some street urchin who stole a cabbage. But if that happened, the vendor would raise the hue and cry. Daylan had been relying upon the relaxed atmosphere to make his escape. After all, who would look twice at a grubby old man?
Daylan eyed Siyaddah thoughtfully. She was a pretty young woman, exotic in her way. Her skin was as dark as chocolate, and she wore white silks in a flowing style that had once been common in Dalharristan among women who were eligible for marriage. And she was petite, compared to those of the warrior clan, for the folk of Dalharristan had never been large. She stood perhaps only a hair above six feet.
She will do nicely, Daylan thought.
“If you would like to be of help,” Daylan said, “go down to the city guards, and flirt. Do you think you could manage that?” Flirting was not an activity that proper young women had engaged in back in Dalharristan. But then, neither were young women in the habit of aiding convicts in their escapes.
“Well, I’ve never done anything like that myself, but I think I can manage,” Siyaddah said. She turned and strode gracefully down the street, aimed like an arrow at the guards. Daylan watched her for a moment, mesmerized by her walk. She had an engaging way of rolling her hips.
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