David Farland - Worldbinder

She smiled, showing her overlarge canines. “Never better,” she said, a tone of wonder creeping into her voice. She peered down at her hand again, clenched it and unclenched, as if realizing it was true. “I feel like I could crush rocks in these hands.”

“I think you’re right,” Fallion said. “You nearly crushed me.”

Alun struggled up toward Caer Luciare, his mouth agape.

There were trees everywhere, huge firs on the skirts of the mountain, white aspens along its top. They had grown in an instant, appearing as if in a vision, their shimmering forms gaining substance.

He had seen them as he fainted, and when he woke, aching and weary, everything had changed. The sun was still up, marvelously drawn back in the sky, and the hills were full of dust clouds and birds.

Daylan Hammer was nowhere to be seen.

Wanderlust had stayed at Alun’s side, and once he got to his feet, the dog set out on Daylan Hammer’s trail again. The dog was able to track him through the thick sod, heading straight for Caer Luciare.

But as Alun neared, he peered in stunned silence at the devastation. The fortress was in ruins. The mountain it had rested upon had dropped hundreds of feet in elevation, and with the drop, the whole structure of the mountain had changed. A stone cliff had broken away, exposing tunnels hidden beneath it like the burrows of wood worms in a rotten log.

Steam from the hot pools beneath the castle hissed out of a dozen rents, and the streams above the castle had been diverted. Waterfalls now emptied down the cliffs from three separate tunnels.

Everywhere, people were rushing to and fro like ants in a broken nest, and Alun staggered up to the castle in a daze, feeling wearier than he’d ever been.

He worried what would happen if the wyrmlings should attack. With the rents in the fortress, they’d have easy access. It might well be indefensible.

He put Wanderlust in the kennel, made sure that the dogs all had food and water, then went looking for Warlord Madoc.

He found him in the battle room, with the High King and his lords, having a shouting match. Daylan Hammer was there, too, and the Wizard Sisel. High King Urstone looked haggard upon his dais, as much shocked by the devastation as Alun. The Warlords standing in the audience hall appeared angry, as if seeking a target for their frustrations.

“I say we strike now, and strike hard!” Madoc roared.

“And leave ourselves defenseless?” the Emir asked. “There are breaches in our defenses. We need men to repair them, strong men like our warriors, and we need time.” The Emir was a tall man for one of his kind. He was shorter than Madoc, and much narrower of shoulder. But he held himself like a king, and thus seemed to cast a long shadow.

“And if the wyrmlings have such breaches in their defenses,” Warlord Barrest asked, “would it not be the chance of a lifetime? We might break into their prison with ease, and release the prince, and send out assassins against Zul-torac.”

“What weapon would you use to pierce his shadow?” the Emir asked. “Can it even be slain?”

“It can,” Madoc said, “with cold iron and sunlight.”

“That is but a presumption,” King Urstone said. “No one has ever killed a Death Lord.”

The Wizard Sisel said, “I think it is more than a presumption, it is a calculated chance. Sunlight would loosen the monstrous spells that bind his spirit to this world. It should weaken him to the point that he could be slain.”

King Urstone was a bit taller than Warlord Madoc, but narrower at the shoulder. He wore no badge of office. Instead, he wore a shirt of plain chain mail, covered by a brown cape, as if he were but another soldier in the castle. His face was wise and lined with wrinkles, and his beard, which was light brown going gray, made him look wiser still. He said reasonably “Attacking Zul-torac is foolhardy. You can’t reach him. He never leaves the warrens beneath Mount Rugassa. He hides among the shadows with the other Death Lords. You’ll never expose him to light. And if you were to attack, his reprisals would tear our realm apart. Let there be no talk of antagonizing Zul-torac. It is only because we hold his daughter hostage that we have enjoyed what little peace we could find these last few years. So long as Zul-torac lives, we can hope to live.”

The Emir had always been wise in counsel. Now he bent his head in thought. “Even if we tried to strike at the north, we might well find that this devastation-this spell-is but a local affair. It may have no effect upon Rugassa.”

He looked to the Wizard Sisel. “What think you, wizard? Is it a local affair?”

The Wizard Sisel leaned upon his staff and bent his head in thought. His face was burned by sun and wind, with cheeks the color of a ripe apple. His hands and fingernails were dirty from his garden, and his robes looked bedraggled. But he carried himself with dignity despite his ragged attire.

He was a powerful wizard, and it was his wards and enchantments that had long helped protect Caer Luciare. All ears bent as he voiced his opinion.

“It is no local affair,” the wizard said. Of them all, only his voice sounded calm and reasonable. “We saw a world fall from the sky, and now the whole world has changed. Grave changes have occurred. I feel it. The earth groans in pain. I can feel it in the soil, and hear it among the rocks. What the cause is, I do not yet know. But this I can say: it is time to prepare for war, not go to war. Did a wyrmling cast this spell-perhaps even Zul-torac himself? If so, he may have known the destruction it would bring. Leaving the castle now, leaving it undefended, would mean that we are playing into the enemy’s hands. And even if it was not a wyrmling who caused this destruction, this spell will rile them. Casting it is like beating a hornets’ nest with a stick. My feeling is that the wyrmlings will strike at us, no matter what.”

“Then it is even more imperative that we take Cantular now,” Madoc said. “By taking the bridge and holding it, we can forestall any attempt at a more serious attack.”

“Your argument is persuasive,” King Urstone said. “Almost, I would ride to war now. If Sisel is right, the wyrmlings will soon be on their way, and my son’s life is forfeit, for I cannot put my love for him above the needs of my people-

“However,” King Urstone continued, “I would have the counsel of Daylan Hammer on this, for he has wisdom gained over countless ages. This spell that is upon us, Daylan-this new world that fell from the heavens-have you heard of the like?” Urstone was an aging man, much worn by his office, and looked as drained as Alun felt. But he was of the warrior caste, and he was a powerful man. Indeed, Alun had never seen the king show a hint of weariness, until now.

Daylan Hammer strode to the center of the audience hall and pulled himself to his full height. Among the warriors, he was a small man, for none of them were less than a foot taller.

“There has never been the like,” Daylan said, “in all of the lore that I know. But upon the netherworld there has been the hope that such a thing would be.”

“A hope?” King Urstone asked in dismay.

“There has been the hope that someone would someday gain the power to bind worlds together.

“Long ago, there was but one world, and one moon, and all men lived in perfect contentment, in perfect peace. There was no death or pain, no deformity, no poverty or war or vice.

“But one went out from among our forefathers who sought power. She sought to wrest control of the world from the others. The control of the world was bound into a great rune, the Seal of Creation. She sought to twist it, to bind it to her, so that she would become the lord of the earth.