David Farland - The Wyrmling Horde

Rhianna suddenly realized that she was moving so blindingly fast that the wyrmlings hadn t got a good look at her. They saw only the wings, and most of them seemed to believe that she was one of their own Knights Eternal. Perhaps they feared that they had displeased their masters somehow.

With a rush of insight, Rhianna realized that she would not need allies for this raid.

I am an army, she thought.

With that she dove into the wyrmlings, to take vengeance for the man she loved.

She swept into two defenders who had kept their wits. One of them hurled an iron war dart, but she easily dipped a wing, dodging the missile.

He raised his ax high, and Rhianna folded her wings at the last instant, letting her weight carry her under his guard. She cut him down at the knee, hurtled past him; then in a thunder of wings she slowed her course, flipped in the air, landed, and faced the next challenge.

The second guard roared and spun to meet her with such speed that Rhianna realized that he must have taken a few endowments himself, but she was endowed like one of the great Runelords of old, and he was no match for her. She plunged her blade into him three times before he could raise a shield to defend himself, and while he began to stagger from his death blow, she whirled and went after the surrendering guards, cutting them down even as they realized their error.

Then she flew into the woods, giving chase to those that had fled.

Two minutes later, not a wyrmling was left.

The giant graak lay on its belly, bleeding its life away, panting from exertion.

There were half a dozen chests on the ground. Rhianna lifted one, heard the clank of forcibles. By its heft, she figured that it weighed a hundred pounds, and held a thousand forcibles.

One by one, Rhianna lugged each chest into the sky, and then flew them to an abandoned well near an old farmhouse some twenty miles off.

There was no way to erase the signs of her battle. The enormous graak lay in a ruined heap, and Rhianna could not afford to waste time by trying to hide the body.

As a trophy of war, she carried a chest with a thousand forcibles back to the horse clans.

The sun had just begun to fall beyond the horizon when Lord Despair sensed the attack.

He was at the summoning fields, hidden within the bowl of the volcano that was Mount Rugassa. Here Zul-torac had opened the gate to a shadow world called Thiss, and even now emissaries from that brutal world awaited him-the Chaos Oracles.

They stood in the gloom of the evening. The first star shone overhead, and bats flitted about in the sky above. But the Chaos Oracles could not be seen, not clearly at least. Vague forms could be sensed, monstrous creatures with spurs of bone that rose up from their backs and heads like cruel thorns, but a storm seemed to swirl about them-ragged bits of cloud and striations of darkness screaming in a whirl, hiding their forms, so that all that could be seen from time to time was the odd horn or glowing eye.

There were four of them in the field, or perhaps five. Even Lord Despair could not be certain, and the folks in his retinue reacted to the strangers with a mixture of fear and revulsion.

Strange thoughts passed through Despair s mind-wisps of memories of torture, half-forgotten dreams, the voices of people who had died long ago, the faces of strangers seen in childhood. There was no order or coherence. Random images and sounds flashed through his mind. It was a sensation unique to those who met Thissians.

At Despair s side was his trusted servant Emperor Zul-torac, a sorcerer who had forsaken his flesh, and now only hovered, draped in a wispy black cowl to lend him some form. At their backs was a retinue of a dozen wyrmling dignitaries-a pair of Death Lords, a pair of Knights Eternal, and the High Council from the Temple of the Wyrm. Last of all came the emperor s own daughter, Kan-hazur, who had just escaped two nights ago from Caer Luciare. The girl limped along slowly, her visage gray and weary.

Her years in prison have made her weak, Despair thought. We should put her to work in the mines, toughen her up.

Despair s fearsome servants did not seem to know how to react to the Thissians. The strange visions and distorted sounds had frightened his men.

Despair stood, studying the Thissians warily.

"Why do they not speak?" one council member whispered.

"It is a custom on Thiss," Despair answered. "When strangers meet, they announce their benevolent intent by standing silently for several minutes, regarding one another. The Thissians are searching your minds, sifting through your dreams and ambitions, reliving the memories that have shaped you. They are getting to know you better than most of you will ever know yourselves."

The wyrmlings seemed to accept the statement, but after a long moment Emperor Zul-torac asked, "Why can we not see them?" His voice whispered like the wind among dead grasses.

"They can bend light to their command, just as do my Darkling Glories or the strengi-saats," Despair explained. "Night hunters on dozens of worlds have developed this skill-but few of them so powerfully as the Chaos Oracles."

He said no more, but one of the High Council members whispered, "Ah, I see: that is why you are bringing us all together."

Dull creature, Despair thought. He should have seen it much sooner.

Despair marked the man for death.

"But darkness has nearly fallen," Emperor Zul-torac noted. "Surely these ones can let their mists dissipate."

"No," Despair whispered, "they will never let the mists of darkness down. Among the shadow worlds, the Thissians are unique. Their forms are hideous even to themselves, and to others of their own kind. Thus they have learned to clothe themselves in mists and wisps of darkness, to hide themselves from themselves. They do not look upon one another, even to copulate."

A Knight Eternal, Kryssidia, said boldly, "I want to see them anyway."

"And if you saw one," Despair said, "you would regret it for as long as you live. The image would haunt you, torment you, and drive you mad. Be thankful that they hide themselves."

The world of Thiss was unknown to Despair s ancient enemies, the Bright Ones of the netherworld. There were so many worlds to monitor, to map, that the Bright Ones had given up long ago. Despair, of course, had made certain that they were too occupied to turn their eyes to these far places.

Thiss was but one of tens of thousands of worlds that had fallen into Despair s grasp. While the Bright Ones remained woefully ignorant of such worlds, Despair comprehended them all.

At that moment, Earth s warning struck, and Despair gasped. "Something is wrong," he said. "Something in the world has changed. Our enemy has raised his hand against us."

The emperor shifted at Despair s side. "Are you certain?"

"The Earth Spirit has been whispering to me for days that an enemy is coming," Despair answered, "telling me that my servants should flee Rugassa. I have ignored the warnings. My shipment of blood metal should be here soon, and our allies are coming-things that should tip the scales in our favor. But something has happened…"

"Perhaps your enemies have begun taking endowments," the emperor said, his robes fluttering just above the ground.

"We need not guess at our enemy s plans," Despair said. "We have the Chaos Oracles to guide us. Listen…"

He had waited a full five minutes to address his guests, time enough for them to get acquainted.

"Have my servants told you why I summoned you?" Despair called out.

From within the vortex of swirling mists and tatters of night, a voice answered. "No one has told, but we know." The accent was strange, soft and crackly, and the voice was filled with hisses and pops, like the sound of meat sizzling above a flame. It carried the hint of the Thissian tongue, but the Thissians had sifted through the wyrmlings memories and learned their language well.