David Farland - The Wyrmling Horde

"Run!" he shouted to Kirissa. "It is me that they want."

He whirled to meet the tormentors, pitting the old magic of the harvester spike against the new magic of the Runelords.

Kirissa ran like the wind, and Cullossax wheeled on his foes. The wyrmlings that raced toward him hardly looked like men. Their faces were pocked and reddened from sunburn. Their eyes were glazed from physical abuse.

The men raced toward him at three times the normal speed, but the harvester spike had worked its magic. Time seemed to have slowed for Cullossax, dilating as it will when the passions run high.

He raised his javelin and feinted a thrust to one man s face, but instead hurled it low, catching the harvester in the hip. The man snarled in pain.

The fellow lunged at Cullossax, hurtling through the air like a panther.

The harvester spike was no match for endowments. Cullossax tried to dodge, but the man plowed into him anyway.

Cullossax was a big man, larger by far than most wyrmlings.

I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him.

He grappled with his attacker, pulling him in close, grabbing him in a bear hug and then crushing with all his might.

He heard ribs snapping, smelled the tormentor s sweaty clothes, saw the wyrmling s eyes widen in fear.

Then the attacker wrenched his arm down with surprising strength, and drew the black knife from its scabbard. Cullossax knew what the man was trying to do, and tried to stop him by hugging him tightly, holding his arms against his chest, but the attacker was too strong, too quick.

Cullossax felt three hot jabs in quick succession as a knife snicked up into his rib cage. Hot blood boiled from his wounds.

I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him.

With all of his might, Cullossax jerked his arms tight, snapping his attacker s back.

The knife came up, slashed Cullossax across the face, and then Cullossax hurled the tormentor away.

He stood for a moment, blinded by his own blood. The man that he d wounded with the javelin had pulled it free, and now was limping toward him.

Blood bubbled in the cavern of Cullossax s lungs, and he grew dazed. His head spun.

The wounded tormentor hurled his javelin, catching Cullossax in the sternum, just below the heart. The power of the blow, combined with his own dizziness, knocked Cullossax backward.

Cullossax lay on the ground, gripping the javelin.

He missed my heart, Cullossax thought. He threw too low. But it did not matter. His lungs had been punctured, and his life would be over in a matter of seconds.

His heart was pounding, and his tormentor laughed at him in derision, when suddenly Cullossax realized that he heard the thunder of hooves rising through the ground.

He heard Kirissa shout something strange, "Gaborn Val Orden!" The name of her Earth King.

And suddenly he realized that they had reached human habitations.

Kirissa must have dashed over the hilltop just as a phalanx of horses crested from the other side.

Cullossax wrenched his neck and peered up the hill. He d never seen horses before, not like this.

These were blood-red in color. They wore steel barding on their heads and chests, and the metal masks made their faces look hideous and otherworldly.

Their riders were just as terrifying-wild human women with frightening masks and long white lances. Some of the women bore torches, and the horses red eyes seemed to blaze in the fierce firelight.

Their captain saw the three wyrmlings and shouted in some strange tongue. The riders charged toward the lone scout who was still standing, lances lowered.

Cullossax s eyes went unfocused then, as the wyrmling assassin met his fate. His death cries rent the air, a wailing sound like a dog dying.

Grinning in satisfaction, Cullossax faded toward unconsciousness.

Run, Kirissa, he thought. Perhaps when all the worlds are bound as one, we will meet again.

Talon walked into the Bright Ones sanctuary down a long winding tunnel, where the curved walls were as smooth as eggshell, a soft cream in color. The floor was formed from slabs of stone, with strange and beautiful knots and whorls chiseled into them. At the landing, the entryway fanned out into a great hall. It was unlike anything that Talon had ever imagined.

The room was large enough to hold ten thousand refugees and more. The walls off to her right seemed to be natural stone, as pale as cloud, and several waterfalls cascaded down over some rocks into a broad pool, raising a gentle mist. Lights like stars blazed above. They hung motionless in the air, only a dozen yards overhead, bright enough that they held the room in an enchanted twilight, as if just before the crack of dawn. Up near the top of the waterfalls, the stars gave just enough light that they nurtured some strange creepers that hung like tapestries from the rock, the pale leaves dotted with brilliant red flowers. White cave crickets sang in the wan light, creating a gentle music that merged with the tumble and tinkle of falling water.

Hallways and corridors yawned ahead, and many in the company forged deeper into the cavern, into antechambers where they might find some privacy and collapse for the night.

Few of the Bright Ones seemed to be here in camp. Talon saw no more than two dozen of their men and women in the cavern. Several of them moved off with Daylan Hammer into a small vestibule to hold their council.

She saw bright flashing lights a few moments later, and she went near the vestibule on the pretext of calming one of Alun s mastiffs that was trotting around, woofing in excitement.

Talon halted beside the stream, called to the dog, and scratched at its neck, beneath its fearsome collar. A white cricket fell from the roof and landed in the water. The stream boiled as a fish lunged up to take it.

Talon glanced into the side tunnel.

The Bright Ones stood with Daylan Hammer in a circle, each of them gazing down at a round stone table as if deep in thought. Above them, creatures circled, like birds made not of flesh but of light, each about the length of a man, with ethereal wings that did not move. They were the source of the flashing lights that had drawn Talon.

Glories, Talon realized. According to legend, the Glories were the spirits of just men who had forsaken their own flesh-much like the Death Lords, Talon mused, though she suspected that she had it backward. Legend said that the Glories had existed long ago, back in the dim recesses of time, but the Death Lords had to be more recent, for legend said that they had been created by Despair.

The Glories seemed to exude life and light, but the Death Lords of Rugassa had no life or light in them; they survived only by draining life from others.

The Death Lords are but a vile mockery of the Glories, Talon realized.

As Talon s eyes adjusted to the light, she studied the room. The vestibule was circular in shape, with a table made from a single piece of jasper. Fine chairs carved from cherrywood lined the outer wall. Tapestries of red embroidered with threads of gold carpeted the floor.

Erringale was speaking in the council chamber, but his liquid voice mingled with the sounds of running water, the chatter of people, and the chirp of cave crickets. Talon could not make out what he said, and even when she could make out the liquid tones of his voice, she could not understand him. It was as if she could understand his words only when he willed her to.