The Wyrmling Horde Read online

  Praise for the Runelords Saga

  “[Farland] explores the very nature of virtue and finds disturbing contradictions at the heart of every moral question. . . . When I reached the end of The Runelords and saw grace arise from a devastating battlefield where too many great hearts lay dead, Farland had earned the tears that came to my eyes. It was not sentiment but epiphany.”

  —Orson Scott Card, author of Empire, on The Runelords

  “The suspense is real, the action is nonstop, and the characterizations continue to convince. . . . [This is] a series that has put Farland on high-fantasy readers’ maps.”

  —Booklist on The Lair of Bones

  “Sometimes truly terrifying, sometimes impossibly sweet, The Lair of Bones is a tale sure to entrance any reader. This is a superb story with deeply empathetic characters.”

  —Sara Douglass, author of The Serpent Bride

  “The author’s imaginative approach to magic, coupled with a richly detailed fantasy world and a cast of memorable heroes and villains, adds depth and variety to this epic tale of war and valor.”

  —Library Journal on Wizardborn

  THE WYRMLING HORDE

  TOR BOOKS BY DAVID FARLAND

  The Runelords

  Brotherhood of the Wolf

  Wizardborn

  The Lair of Bones

  Sons of the Oak

  Worldbinder

  The Wyrmling Horde

  Chaosbound

  THE

  WYRMLING HORDE

  DAVID FARLAND

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE WYRMLING HORDE

  Copyright © by 2008 by David Farland

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-5585-0

  First Edition: September 2008

  First Mass Market Edition: October 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Nichole, Danielle, Forrest, Spencer, and Ben—who have

  all helped their dad so much over the years.

  To contact the author, e-mail [email protected].

  To see news of the series, visit his site at www.runelords.com.

  THE WYRMLING HORDE

  Prologue

  * * *

  RUNES OF COMPASSION

  This is Understanding’s House,

  I’ve seen these doors before,

  Though when or where, I don’t know.

  In dusty rooms, like ancient tombs,

  I studied endless lore.

  For what or why, I don’t know.

  Yet soon I learned too much,

  Like a child lost in war.

  Lost in horrors

  I hope you’ll never know.

  —A song of Mystarria

  In all of his dreams, Fallion had never dreamed with such intense clarity. He dreamed that he was soaring above the Courts of Tide. He was not riding a graak, nor did he wear a magical wing. In his dream Fallion’s arms stretched wide, holding him aloft, like some seagull that hangs motionless in the sky, its wingtips trembling as the wind sweeps beneath them.

  Nothing below obstructed his view.

  He glided over houses where the sweet gray smoke of cooking fires floated lazily above thatched roofs, and Fallion darted above a palace wall, veering between two tall white towers where a guard with his pike and black scale mail gaped up at Fallion in astonishment. Fallion could see each graying hair of the guard’s arched eyebrow, and how the man’s brass pin hung loose on his forest-green cape, and he could even smell the man’s ripening sweat.

  Fallion swooped low over the cobbled city streets, where fishermen in their white tunics and brown woolen caps trudged to their dank homes after a hard day working the nets; the young scholars who attended the House of Understanding stood on street corners arguing jovially while sipping tankards of ale, and a boy playing with a pet rat in the street gaped up at Fallion and pointed, his mouth an O of surprise.

  “The king has come!” the child cried in surprise, and suddenly the people looked up in awe and rejoiced to see Fallion. “The king! Look!” they cried, tears leaping to their eyes.

  I must be dreaming, Fallion thought, for never have I seen the world so clearly.

  There is a legendary stream in the land of Mystarria. Its icy waters tumble down from the snowfields of Mount Rimmon, beneath pines that guard the slopes, along moss-covered floors where huge marble statues of dead kings lie fallen. The stream’s clean flow spills into forest pools so transparent that even at a depth of forty feet every water weed and sparkling red crayfish can be seen. The enormous trout that live there “seemingly slide through the air just by slapping their tails,” and all of them grow fat and to a ripe old age, for no fisherman or otter can hope to venture near in waters so clear.

  So the stream is called the Daystar, for it is as clear and sparkling as the morning star.

  And that is how preternaturally clear the dream came to Fallion, as clear as the waters of the Daystar.

  He longed to continue dreaming forever, but for one thing: the air was so cold. He could feel frost beginning to rime his fingernails, and he shivered violently.

  This frost will kill me, he thought. It will pierce my heart like an arrow.

  And so he struggled to wake, and found himself . . . flying.

  The wind rushed under him, cold and moist, and Fallion huddled in pain sharp and bitter.

  He could feel a shard of steel lodged below his ribcage, like a dagger of ice. Drying blood matted his shirt.

  He struggled to wake, and when his eye opened to a slit, it was bright below. The wan silvery light of early morning filled the sky. He could see the tops of pines below, limbs so close that if he had reached out he could almost have touched them.

  Where am I? I’m flying above a forest.

  In the distance he could descry a mountain—no, he decided, a strange castle as vast as a mountain. It was built into the sides of a black volcano whose inner fires limned the cone at its top and spewed smoke and ash.

  All beneath, along the skirts of the volcano, a formidable fortress sprawled, with murderously high walls and thousands of dark holes that might have been windows or tunnels into the mountain.

  There was no fresh lime upon the walls to make the castle gleam like silver in the dawn. Instead, the castle was black and foreboding. A few pale creatures bustled along the walls and upon the dark roads below, racing to flee the dawn, looking like an army of angry ants. Even a mile away, Fallion could tell that they were not entirely human.

  Wyrmlings, he realized.

  Fallion shivered violently, so cold and numb that he feared he would die. His thoughts clouded by pain, he struggled to figure out what was happening.

  He was not flying under his own power. He was being borne by some great creature. Huge arms clutched him tightly. If a stone gargoyle had come to life, Fallion imagined that it would grip him so. He could hear powerful wings flapping: the wind from each downstroke assailed him.

  Fallion could not see his captor, but he co
uld smell the arm that clutched him. It smelled like . . . rotten meat, like something long dead.

  Fear coursed through him.

  I’m in the arms of a Knight Eternal, Fallion realized, one of the dead lords of the wyrmlings. And he began to remember . . .

  The battle at Caer Luciare. The wyrmling warriors with their sickly pale skin and bone armor had attacked the mountain fortress, a fortress so different from the one he was going to. The limestone walls of the fortress had been glistening white, as clean as snow, and in the market flowers and fruit trees grew in a riot along the street, while leafy vines hung from the windows.

  The wyrmlings had come with the night. The pounding of their thunder drums had cracked the castle walls. Poisoned war darts had pelted down in a black rain. Everywhere there had been cries of dismay as the brave warriors of Caer Luciare saw their plight.

  Jaz! Fallion thought, almost crying aloud, as he recalled his brother falling. A black dart had been sprouting from Jaz’s back as he knelt on hands and knees, blood running from his mouth.

  After that, everything became confused. Fallion remembered running with Rhianna at his side, retreating up the city streets in a daze, people shouting while Fallion wondered, Is there anything I could have done to save him?

  He recalled the Knights Eternal sweeping out of dark skies. Fallion held his sword at guard position, eager to engage one, heart hammering as the monster swept toward him like a falcon, its enormous black long sword stretched out before it—a knight charging toward him on a steed of wind.

  Fallion twisted away from the attack at the last instant, his blade swiping back against the tip of the Knight Eternal’s sword. Fallion had meant to let his blade cut cleanly into flesh, but the Knight Eternal must have veered, and Fallion’s blade struck the thick metal—and snapped.

  As his tortured blade broke, Fallion had felt pain lance just below the ribcage. A remnant of his shattered blade lodged in his flesh. He fell to his knees, blood gushing hot over his tunic as he struggled to keep from swooning.

  Rhianna had called “Fallion! Fallion!” and all around him the noise of battle had sought to drown out her voice, so that it seemed to come from far away.

  Struggling to remain awake, Fallion had knelt for a moment, dazed, while the world whirled viciously.

  Everything went black.

  And now I wake, Fallion thought.

  He closed his eyes, tried to take stock of his situation.

  His artificial wings were folded against his back. He did not know how to use them well, yet. He’d worn the magical things for less than a day. He could feel a sharp pain where they were bound tightly, lest he try to escape.

  I dare not let the monster know that I am awake, Fallion realized.

  Fallion’s sword was gone, his scabbard empty, but he still had a dagger hidden in his boot.

  If I could reach it, he thought, I could plunge it into the monster’s neck.

  Fallion was so cold, his teeth were chattering. He tried to still them, afraid to make any noise, afraid to alert the creature.

  But if I attack, what then? The monster will fall, and I will fall with it—to my death.

  His mind reeled away from the unpleasant prospect.

  Moments later the Knight Eternal groaned and cursed, as if in pain. They had been flying in the shadow of a hill, and suddenly they were in open sunlight. Fallion’s captor dropped lower, so that he was flying beneath the trees, well in their shadow.

  There was a nimbus around them, a thick haze. It gathered a bit.

  Of course, Fallion realized, the Knight Eternal is racing against the coming of day. He’s gathering the light around him, trying to create a shadow.

  He’s struggling to get me back to the castle before dawn!

  They had dropped lower now, and Fallion judged that he was not more than twenty feet above ground. On impulse, Fallion reached for his boot dagger, and by straining managed to reach it, grasping it with two fingers. He tried to pull it free.

  Just as suddenly, his captor tightened his grip, pulling Fallion’s arms mercilessly tight. The boot knife fell, spinning away to land on the ground.

  The Knight Eternal was crushing Fallion against his chest. It apparently had not even noticed what Fallion was doing. But the creature’s grip was so fearsome that now Fallion had to struggle for a breath.

  Fallion despaired. He had no other weapons.

  Fallion wondered about Rhianna. If she was alive, she would have protected him to the last. He knew that about her at least. No woman was more faithful, more devoted to him, than she.

  Which meant that like Jaz, she must be dead.

  The very thought tore at Fallion’s sanity.

  My fault, he told himself. It is my fault that they’re dead. I am the one who brought them here. I’m the one who bound the worlds together.

  And as quickly as Fallion had fallen into despair, rage and determination welled up. Fallion was a wizard of unguessable power. In ages past, there had been one sun and one true world, bright and perfect, and all mankind had lived in harmony beneath the shade of the One True Tree. But the great Seal of Creation that governed that world had been broken, and as it broke, the world shattered, splintering into a million million parts, creating millions upon millions of shadow worlds, each a dull imitation of that one true world, each less virtuous, each spinning around its own sun so that now the heavens were filled with a sea of stars.

  Now Fallion had demonstrated the skill necessary to bind those shadow worlds back into one. He had bound two worlds together. He had yet to bring to pass the realization of his dream: binding all worlds into one world, flawless and perfect.

  But his enemies had feared what he could do, and had set a trap. Fallion had bound his own world with another, as an experiment, and everything had gone terribly wrong.

  Now Fallion’s people had been thrust into a land of giants, where the cruel wyrmlings ruled, a ruthless people thoroughly enthralled by an evil so monstrous that it was beyond Fallion’s power to imagine, much less comprehend.

  I hoped to make a better world, to re-create the one true world of legend, and instead I brought my people to the brink of ruin.

  The Knight Eternal that carried him suddenly rose toward a gate in the castle. Fallion could hear barks and snarls of alarm as wyrmling warriors announced their approach.

  Where is the Knight Eternal taking me? Fallion wondered.

  The knight swept through an enormous archway, landed with a jar, and then crept into a lightless corridor, carrying Fallion as easily as if he were a child.

  Fallion’s toes and fingers were numb. He felt so cold that he feared he had frostbite. He still could not think well. Every thought was a skirmish. Every memory was won only after a long battle.

  He needed warmth, heat. There was none to be found. There had been no sunlight shining upon the castle. There were no torches sitting in sconces to brighten the way. Instead the Knight Eternal bore him down endless tunnels into a labyrinth where the only illumination came from worms that glittered along the wall and ceiling.

  Sometimes he passed other wyrmlings, and whether they were mere servants or hardened warriors, they all backed away from his captor in terror.

  Fallion could have used his powers to leach a little heat from a wyrmling, if one had come closer.

  Maybe the stone is warm, Fallion thought. Maybe it still recalls the sunlight that caressed it yesterday.

  Fallion could have reached out to quest for the sunlight. But there was a great danger. Fallion was a flameweaver, a wizard of fire. Yet he knew that at least one Knight Eternal had mastered such skills better than he: Vulgnash.

  In earlier battles, each time that Fallion had tried to tap into some source of heat, Vulgnash had siphoned the energy away.

  Of course, Fallion realized. That is why I am so cold now. The creature has drained me. I am in Vulgnash’s arms.

  I must not let him know that I am awake.

  Vulgnash had no body heat that Fallion coul
d use. Though the Knight Eternal mimicked life, the monster was dead, and it had no more heat in it than did a serpent.

  So Fallion held still, struggled to slow his breathing, to feign sleep, as the Knight Eternal bore him down, down an endless winding stair.

  We’re going to the heart of the world.

  I will have to attack quickly when the chance comes. A single torch is all that I’ll need. I’ll cause it to flash into light, to consume all of its fuel in an instant, and then draw it into myself. I’ll use its heat to burn my enemies.

  After long and long, the Knight Eternal reached a landing and walked out into an open room. The air was fetid, stifling, and smelled slightly of sulfur.

  Fallion could hear children whimpering—along with the moan of some man, and the uncontrolled sobbing of a woman. These were not the deep-throated sounds of subhuman wyrmlings. These were the whimpers and cries of his own people, beaten and wounded.

  “Help! Someone please help us!” a boy cried in Fallion’s own Rofehavanish tongue.

  The cries of his people came from a knot at one side of the room.

  The Knight Eternal spoke, its voice a growl deeper than a lion’s, and around him came answering growls.

  Fallion could see nothing through his half-slitted eyes.

  So he closed them, and in a way that he had learned as a child, he looked upon the world with his inner eye, the eyes of his spirit, and he saw light.

  He could descry the room. Each creature within it could be discerned not as flesh and bone but as a creature of light, with glowing tendrils arcing out in shades of blue and white—like the spines of a sea anemone. These were their spirits, easily discerned, while their flesh showed hardly at all. Bone and muscle seemed to have almost disappeared, becoming a cloudy nimbus. But still their shapes could be seen. Their skin was but a transparent sac, like the skin of jellyfish, and within that sac their spirits burned, giving light.