The Wyrmling Horde Read online

  Fallion was surrounded by wyrmlings. The creatures were far larger than humans, though they were human in form. Each stood nearly eight feet tall, had broad shoulders, and could not have weighed less than four hundred pounds. Many were at least six hundred. The bony plates on their foreheads were topped with stubs that looked as if they would sprout horns, and their canines were overlarge. Their cruel faces seemed to be twisted into permanent sneers.

  Wyrmling guards watched at every door, and three dignitaries stood at the foot of a throne. The light within these wyrmlings was very dim. Fallion could see black creatures, fluttering and indistinct, that fed upon their souls—the loci, parasitical beings of pure evil.

  Fallion was not surprised by the loci’s presence. His foster sister Talon had warned him that the wyrmlings had been raised to serve the loci. The wyrmlings vied for the parasites, believing that to be infected by a locus granted them immortality. They believed that their spirits were mortal, and could become immortal only once they were subsumed into immortal loci.

  Upon the floor sprawled human prisoners, small folk like Fallion—people from his own world. Their innocent spirits shone as bright as stars. There was a mother, a father, and three children. They were roughly bound so that ankles and legs lay bleeding and, in the case of the father, twisted and broken.

  Upon a dais sat a creature that horrified Fallion. It was not as large as a wyrmling, and not as deformed in the face. Thus, Fallion realized that it was one of the folk of Caer Luciare, who were giants by the standards of Fallion’s world.

  So, Fallion decided, it was a man, with long hair. Like the folk of Caer Luciare, who had been bred to war for countless centuries, he did not look entirely human. His face was narrower than a wyrmling’s, and his skull was not as heavily armored. The bony plate on his forehead was not nearly so pronounced, and his canines were not so large.

  His raven hair was tied at the back, and his haggard face shaven clean. His skin was rough and unhealthy, and his cheekbones were pronounced, as if he were half-starved. But he was not unpleasing to the eye. Almost, Fallion realized, he was handsome.

  It was not his features that horrified Fallion: it was the creature that dwelt within this man. There was a locus feeding upon his bright spirit, a locus so dark and malevolent, Fallion could feel its influence from across the room. Indeed the evil seemed to be sprawling, and the locus was so massive that it could not fit within the fleshly shell of its host. Other loci were often not much larger than cats. But this one was vast and bloated, and it crouched, feeding upon its host’s bright spirit, a spirit so luminous that Fallion could only imagine that the host had been a virtuous man, blameless and honorable—not some wyrmling horror.

  The locus’s sprawling gut filled more than half of the room. Indeed it seemed almost like the abdomen of a black widow spider, so huge that the belly dwarfed its head.

  Fallion’s captor dropped him to the floor.

  In utter darkness, a voice spoke. “Welcome to Rugassa, Fallion Orden.” The voice was deep, too deep to be human. It came from the lord who sat upon the dais. It came from the locus. The creature knew Fallion’s name. “I know that you are awake.”

  “You speak my tongue?” Fallion asked.

  “I speak all tongues,” the locus said, “for I am the master of all worlds. I am Lord Despair. Serve me, and you shall be spared.”

  Only then was Fallion sure where he stood. He was in the presence of the One True Master of Evil, who had tried to wrest control of the Rune of Creation from mankind, and who had shattered their perfect world into innumerable shards.

  “I will not serve you,” Fallion said. “I remember you, Yaleen. I remember when I served our people under the One True Tree. You could not sway me with your beauty then; you will not sway me with the horror that you have become.”

  Fallion had fought a locus before. Using his flameweaving skills, he’d created a light so bright that it pierced a locus and burned it.

  Quick as a thought, Fallion reached out with his senses and grasped for the warmth of the wyrmling guards. Their bodies were massive and held more heat than the human prisoners might have. Fallion planned to suck their warmth into himself.

  Ghostly red lights fluoresced as heat streamed toward him.

  But as quickly as he reached out, he felt a stab of ice lance through him, and his own inner fire raced away, along with the heat that he’d hoped to steal. Ice lanced through his guts.

  “Aaaaagh,” Fallion cried as indescribable agony sought expression. He was suddenly swimming in pain, struggling to remain conscious.

  Now he knew for certain: the Knight Eternal who stood over him was a flameweaver of consummate skill. It had to be Vulgnash.

  Lord Despair said, “If you will not serve me, you shall suffer. How great your suffering will be, you cannot guess. I have tasted such suffering in part, and even I could not bear it.”

  Lord Despair clapped his hands. A guard brought a single thumb-light into the room, a tiny lantern that might have been carved from amber, with a wick that gave off no more flame than a candle. It allowed Fallion to see, though wyrmlings had to squint away.

  The wyrmling guard wore armor carved from the bone of a world wyrm, armor as white and as milky as his warty skin. He strode among five human prisoners, letting the light shine above them so that Fallion could see. The first that he revealed was a child of four, a girl in a humble sack-like dress with golden hair whose face was a mask of purple bruises. Next to her lay a boy of twelve, some farm boy with two broken arms twisted and tied behind his back. Beyond was a woman who was obviously his mother, for they both had the same dark hair. She lay as if lifeless, though her chest rose and fell. Her bloody skirts suggested that the wyrmlings had put her through unspeakable torments.

  Next to them was the father, a broken bone protruding through his leg. Last of all was a small boy of two, wrapped in a fetal position, his face a mask of terror.

  They’ve captured a whole family, Fallion felt sure. They went into some farm cottage and ripped these poor folk from the lives that they had loved.

  It’s my fault, he thought. I’m the one who bound the worlds together.

  Some of the prisoners now tried to struggle. The mother looked up around the room at her tormentors with eyes red and glazed from weeping.

  “Pain can be a wondrous inducement,” Lord Despair said to Fallion in his deep voice. “And you shall feel wondrous pain. Of all the worlds that you could have bound together, these two offer the greatest possibilities. The tormentors of Rugassa have been perfecting their art for five thousand years. Among all of my shadow worlds, there are no better. And now, because of you, they shall take their art to a higher level, to heights undreamed.”

  He’s going to kill the prisoners, Fallion thought. He’ll torture them to death for his own amusement. Fallion had seen such tortures before, when the locus Asgaroth had taken men and threaded poles through them, leaving them skewered but somehow still alive as he raised their racked bodies up for the world to see.

  But no torture was forthcoming. Instead, the Knight Eternal growled an order. Another guard came into the room bearing a red pillow.

  Upon it were five small rods, each the length of Fallion’s hand and as thick as a nail. Upon the head of each rod was a rune, bound within a circle.

  These were forcibles, the branding irons that allowed a Runelord to draw attributes from his vassals so that he could garner their strength and speed, their beauty and wisdom.

  Fallion had never tasted the kiss of a forcible. On his world the blood metal that they were forged from was so rare that only the wealthiest and most powerful lords ever owned it. And though Fallion’s father had bequeathed him some forcibles, Fallion had refused to use them for a more important reason: he had not been able to stand the thought of drawing out the wit from a man in order to boost his own intelligence, for in doing so, he would turn that man into a drooling idiot. He could not even think of taking the beauty from some woman, leaving her
a hag. He abhorred the thought of draining the strength from some burly peasant, consigning the man to such a state of frailty that his heart might fail at pumping his own life’s blood.

  So Fallion had refused to take endowments from his people.

  What endowment is Lord Despair going to wrest from these poor folks? Fallion wondered.

  But that question was dashed by a more significant realization. Since the binding of these two worlds, Fallion had hoped that the wyrmlings would not have discovered the rune lore that would allow the transfer of attributes, for it was only such lore that gave his own small folk the hope of beating the wyrmlings.

  In the battle for Luciare he’d seen some wyrmlings running with seemingly superhuman speed, and had worried that they might have taken endowments.

  Now, Fallion saw, the wyrmlings did indeed understand such lore, or at least, with the binding of the worlds, they had learned of it.

  The guard brought the forcibles, the magical branding irons, to the Knight Eternal that loomed above Fallion. Vulgnash took one, studied it a moment, and then held it close so that Fallion could see. The rune engraved upon it was unknown to Fallion’s people. But after a few seconds he realized that he recognized part of it—a rune of touch.

  But there were other runes bound into the forcible, at least two or three others that Fallion had never seen, and suddenly Fallion realized that the wyrmlings not only understood rune lore, their knowledge far surpassed that of his own people.

  “What? What is this?” Fallion asked, studying the forcible.

  “You shall see,” Lord Despair said.

  A wyrmling lord took the forcible and began to chant, a sound deep and soothing, mesmerizing. As he did, the tip of the forcible began to glow hot, like a branding iron that sits among coals, becoming brighter and brighter.

  When it shone like a fallen star, he went to the farm woman in her bloody skirts, flipped her over so that Fallion could see her bruised face, and plunged the branding iron between her eyes.

  The air filled with the reek of singed flesh and burning hair. When the wyrmling pulled the branding iron free, a white light stretched out from the woman’s forehead, like a glowing worm. It elongated, following the forcible as the facilitator pulled it away and twirled the branding iron. The worm of light did not fade, but merely hung in the air, a ghostly presence.

  “Wait!” Fallion cried, for the light revealed that the endowment ceremony was working, yet it did so despite the rules that Fallion understood. “She must give her endowment willingly. You can’t just rip it from her!”

  In his own world endowments were most often given as an act of love, a gift to a worthy lord from a grateful vassal who hoped, by bestowing the gift, to protect his people. But it was also true that endowments might be coerced. Some lords bought endowments, granting great wealth to those who sold them. Vile lords sometimes devised torments so terrible that the vassal would relinquish an attribute in hope to escape the consequences.

  But in all cases, the attribute had to be given by one who had a willing heart. It could not be stripped away like this.

  Fallion reeled a bit, struggling to hold on to consciousness. The cold around him was so intense.

  “I am taking their pain,” Lord Despair said. “I am taking the whole of it: the pain of their wounds, the torment of their minds, all of their suffering and anguish. Who would not want to give that up? Even in their delirium, their fogged minds scream for release, and thus their endowments are taken willingly.”

  Fallion peered up at Lord Despair and realized what he intended to do. He would give Fallion all of their torment.

  Moments later, the wyrmling wizard bore the forcible to Fallion, and thrust its white-hot tip against Fallion’s cheek.

  The kiss of a forcible is said to be sweet, sweeter than any lover’s lips. Perhaps in part, that was because the one who receives an endowment also receives strength or stamina or some other virtue that all humans long for.

  Who has not looked upon a great sage and not wished for his wisdom? What woman has not gazed upon that rare beauty that is born with perfect skin and teeth, with shining hair and a glorious figure, and not longed that she had been so endowed from birth?

  And it was true that Fallion felt a rush of euphoria that rocked him to the very core.

  Yet, it was not as it was supposed to be.

  It is said that he or she who grants an endowment does so at great cost. When a virtue is ripped from them, it causes indescribable agony, an agony so profound that only a woman who has endured a rough birthing can begin to comprehend it.

  As the forcible lightly kissed Fallion’s cheek, he felt the rush of euphoria, coupled with a pain so profound that it ripped a cry from his throat.

  His muscles convulsed, and he was thrown to the floor. His back spasmed, as did his stomach, and he began to retch.

  He felt the woman’s pain. Not just the physical torment that came from being mauled and raped by wyrmling giants, being torn and bloodied. He felt the heartbreak that had come as her husband and children were forced to watch. He felt her humiliation and despair, a mother’s maddening fear for her own children.

  He’d never felt emotions quite so raw or profound. It was as if he were being sucked into a vortex, whirling down into perfect darkness, all of her sadness and torment suddenly blending together with Fallion’s own remorse—Fallion’s pain at losing his brother, of losing Rhianna, his shame at having bound these worlds together in such a way that the wyrmlings were suddenly loosed upon his innocent people.

  The wyrmlings have perfected torture, Fallion realized as he lay on the floor, vomiting from guilt, wishing for death.

  And then one by one, the wyrmlings stripped endowments of pain from each prisoner.

  Fallion felt the father’s helplessness and outrage and guilt for not having saved his wife, his regret that his children would never reach adulthood, even as the bone protruding from his shin festered and rotted, threatening to leach his life away.

  Moments later, Fallion felt an infant’s terror of the giant wyrmlings, her overwhelming sense of helplessness, and the pain where a wyrmling had bitten off her pinky finger.

  So it went, each child in turn.

  Fallion took upon himself each of their fears, their guilt, their loss and longing.

  As endowments were stripped from the family, the children quit their whimpering and the woman left off her sobbing, each of them falling into silence as they went remarkably numb.

  And with each endowment, Fallion felt as if he would be overwhelmed one more time.

  I must not give in, he told himself. I must not let Lord Despair break me.

  When has Despair tasted such torment? Fallion wondered. And then his spiritual eyes opened, and he remembered . . .

  Yaleen had tried to seize control of the world by bending the Great Seal of Creation to her will, and in the process, she had broken it. The Seal shattered, and suddenly the world splintered into a million million shadows.

  Fallion had been there under the great tree, and as the deed was done, he had run out from under the tree and watched with overwhelming dread and awe: it was night, and Fallion watched entire shadow worlds, like phantoms—with their opalescent swirling clouds, and seas of endless blue, and their snow-clad mountains, their fiery sunrises—all exploding and fleeing away in every direction, a continuous succession of worlds, each sending a shock wave through his very bones as it streamed away.

  He watched stars forming in the night sky—entire galaxies spawned in an instant, then scattering away as the shadow worlds formed.

  The True Tree was uprooted. Mountains crumbled and crevasses opened, swallowing communities whole. Volcanoes roared to life, spewing ash while lightning shrieked at their crowns.

  The destruction was magnificent.

  Hundreds of thousands of people died, while others merely vanished, apparently cast off onto some shadow world.

  Nothing like this had ever happened in Fallion’s pure and perfect world
. His people had never felt death, never suffered such devastating loss.

  And when the deed was done, Yaleen fled.

  Fallion was one of the Ael who was sent to find Yaleen and bring her back for judgment. After many days, he caught her.

  She tried to use her feminine charms to persuade him to let her go. She begged him and berated him.

  But he took her to the White Council.

  There had never been need for a punishment like this. There had been no death, no murder in his world. There had been petty thefts by children, and unintended insults.

  But no one had ever committed a crime so foul.

  Fallion knew that Yaleen had not meant to cause such devastation. She had only thought it a childish prank, she insisted, though she was a person of terrible avarice.

  But her act had such far-reaching consequences, it could not be treated lightly.

  So a new punishment was devised.

  The Bright Ones who were left alive after the fall were devastated—mourning for lost loves, for children that they would never see, for friends that were gone.

  So many joined in Yaleen’s torment—not all, for some could not bring themselves to exercise harsh judgment, but each person who desired revenge walked up to Yaleen, and with the tears from their own eyes, traced a rune upon her cheek.

  In the past, the rune had been used by lovers, by those who wished to share their deepest and most sacred feelings for one another. It was a rune of Compassion.

  It was the same rune that Fallion had seen upon the forcibles.

  By granting it, the Bright Ones shared their own grief and loss with Yaleen, heaping it upon her.

  Some told themselves that they were doing it for her own good, that they were only trying to teach her, lest she continue in her evil ways.

  But Fallion knew that it was more than teaching.

  And so each Bright One had taken vengeance upon Yaleen, until bitter tears streamed down her face and she fought to break away from those who had once been her friends. She clawed and wailed, while strong men held her.