Worldbinder Part 17

Vulgnash could not wait to try. But first he had to get the prisoners back to Ruga.s.sa. His wings could not carry so much weight. He'd have to take the prisoners overland.

"Take these rods to Zul-torac," Vulgnash commanded. "He'll know what to do. I'll bring the prisoners to Ruga.s.sa in three days."

"Yes, Master," Thul said. He grabbed up the small branding irons, raced to the edge of the platform, and his crimson wings unfolded and caught the air. In a moment he was gone, rising up into the starlight.

Fallion lay petrified, a bone-numbing cold coursing through his body, his legs and arms unable to move, bound tightly. He was so cold, he could hardly think. He could do little in the way of making plans. He acted only on instinct.

He sent his senses out, questing for a source of heat. The sun had gone down long ago. There was no heat left in the stones around him, nor in the Knight Eternal.

Even his friends were perilously cold. He could not draw from them, not without killing them.

Wyrmlings came from the fort then, filling his field of vision. They were like men in some ways, monstrous men as pale white as bone, with misshapen skulls, huge and powerful.

One of them heaved Fallion over his back like a carca.s.s, then carried him down the ladder and out along the stone street until they reached a wagon. Upon it lay a huge stone box. There were no horses or oxen to draw the thing. Instead it had handles on the front. The cruel contraption was a handcart, powered by the sweat of brutish wyrmlings.

The wyrmling shoved the stone lid off the box with one hand, a feat that should have required several strong men, then tossed Fallion in without ceremony. Moments later, Talon, Jaz, and Rhianna each tumbled in beside him, and the lid sc.r.a.ped closed.

Fallion could feel the cold begin to wear off. The numbness in his hands was fading; he clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to get the blood to flow.

He reached out with his mind. He could feel heat from the wyrmlings. A dozen of them surrounded the little carriage. He tried to use his flameweaving skills to siphon off their body heat.

He did not need much, just enough to burn the cords that bound his hands.

Instantly it felt as if a wall crashed down between him and the wyrmlings. The little heat that he had in his body drained off, and Fallion was left reeling in pain from the cold.

For only an instant, Fallion tasted blinding agony, and then pa.s.sed out.

It seemed like long hours before his thoughts returned. He had to fight his way through a seeming tunnel of pain. His teeth chattered and he s.h.i.+vered all over.

He didn't have the strength to fight his captor. He didn't even dare try.

Next time, he feared, the Knight Eternal would drain him of heat completely.

The wagon tilted as one of the wyrmlings lifted the front end, and then the wheels began to creak as it jolted down the uneven road.

North, Fallion realized dully as he felt the wagon turn. They are taking us north. But what lay that direction, he did not know.

He thought he'd try his tongue, even though it felt swollen and foreign in his mouth, as if some slab of meat were caught in his throat. "Talon? Talon? Where are they taking us?"

There was a long silence.

At last Jaz answered, "I think...our sister is dead. I can't feel her breathing."

It was blackest night in the box. Fallion turned and peered toward Talon.

In his memory, they were all back in their little home on the Sweetgra.s.s. It was the night before they set out, and all of the neighbors had come. Lanterns hung from the peach trees in the front yard, shedding light upon the bounteous feast that had been set before them-piles of strawberries and fresh peas from the garden, succulent greens and wild mushrooms, mounds of spiced chicken, steaming m.u.f.fins.

There had been music and celebration with a band that had come all of the way from Rye.

And there had been worry. Fallion had seen it in Myrrima's eyes, and in Borenson's, for Fallion was setting sail to the far side of the earth and heading into the underworld, where the reavers dwelt.

Fallion had felt so c.o.c.ksure of himself.

"Take good care of my baby," Myrrima had begged. She loved Fallion as if he were her own son, he knew. She had never treated him with any less kindness or devotion, even though he was only hers by adoption. But Talon was her first-born, and a girl, and Myrrima had always doted on her when she was young.

"I'll take care of her," Fallion had promised.

"Bring her back alive, and whole," Myrrima begged, fighting back tears. Fallion could see that she wanted to run into the house, to hide herself and cry.

"When we come back," Fallion had said, "it will be in a more perfect world, and Talon will be whole and beautiful, more beautiful than you can imagine."

Myrrima had smiled faintly then, wanting to believe.

Fallion reached out with his senses, could find almost no warmth in Talon's body. The Knights Eternal had drained it all from her.

What have I done? Fallion wondered. He'd brought a change upon the world, but Talon had become a monster, huge and grotesque, nearly as bad as the wyrmlings.

And now she lay at the verge of death.

Rhianna began to weep. Fallion could hear her sniffling.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"So cold," Fallion said through chattering teeth. He'd never felt anything like it, not even in the coldest arctic storm.

Rhianna rolled over to him, showing more strength than he possessed. She leaned against him, draping her body over him like a blanket. "Here," she whispered. "Take the heat of my body."

He continued to tremble, hoping that her warmth might keep him alive. No words of grat.i.tude seemed sufficient. "Thank you," he managed weakly. And then he realized that he felt so close to death, he might never get a chance to speak to her again. "I love you."

All through the long night, the wyrmlings toiled down the road, the wagon shuddering as if it would burst each time it slammed into a rut, the wheels of the wagon creaking.

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 Ruga.s.sa, 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 gra.s.ses 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 warrior's hearts pumping hard from bloodl.u.s.t, 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 compa.s.sion. 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 do love their children more than we do?" Connor asked. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y-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. What they call love is bound up in those. Greed because they want to possess a child, to own something that is an extension of their l.u.s.ts. Fear because they believe that children confer upon them a sort of eternal reprieve. 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 really know much about such things. He had never really studied wyrmling philosophy. He was only repeating s.n.a.t.c.hes 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-l.u.s.t. Without men to hunt, they would quickly begin slaughtering themselves. Madoc knew that the wyrmlings could indeed harvest glands from their own kind-but that would soon lead to b.l.o.o.d.y 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 va.s.sals. 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."