David Farland - Worldbinder

Madoc grinned. “Smart lad,” he said. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. I suspect him of murder, and more. If he is the traitor that I think he is, I’ll tie his hands behind his back and let the headsman take a few swings at him.”

Drewish laughed, “Then we’ll find out just how immortal he really is.”

If I follow Daylan Hammer and find something to accuse him of, what then? Alun wondered. If Madoc succeeds in taking vengeance, for the rest of time people will remember me as the man who betrayed Daylan Hammer.

Madoc seemed almost to read his mind. “It is possible,” he said, “that Daylan Hammer is as fair as he seems. But I have found that it is a rare man who can really be trusted. Every man’s hand seeks his brother’s purse, especially in days like these. And if Daylan Hammer sees some advantage in betraying us…

“I’d send a warrior again, or Connor or Drewish, but you have a chance to succeed where they would fail. If Daylan catches you, you can tell him that you were out hunting for a lost dog. That is, after all, your lot in life, and it would sound feasible that you would go out and hunt for an animal that you love.”

“I think…” Alun said, “that Daylan Hammer is a good man.”

“Good to who?” Madoc asked. “Is he loyal to this kingdom? Of course not. He was born before it was, and it will fade and die long before he does. We are like dreams to him that come vividly in the night and just as soon vanish. I make plans for my lands. My serfs know that we will plant barley in the field for three years, and let it lie fallow for two. But think how Daylan Hammer must scheme. What does he plan for these lands in a hundred years, or a thousand, or in ten thousand?

“More to the point, what will he do to bring those plans to bear? Will you and I suffer for it?”

Alun grunted thoughtfully, stroked Wanderlust on the back. Most likely, he would find that Daylan was guilty of nothing, and by humoring Warlord Madoc, Alun would earn his gratitude. But if Alun discovered anything of import…he’d be well rewarded.

“I’ll do it, milord,” Alun said.

As Warlord Madoc and his sons strode across the greens well out of earshot, Drewish asked his father, “You wouldn’t really grant him clan rights, would you? Mother thinks he should be gelded. He’s more of a cur than any of the dogs that he sleeps with.”

“I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” Madoc said. “I must prove to my people that my word is good. Let him marry a warrior’s daughter, if he can find one who will sleep with him. We’ll send him and his offspring to the head of every battle.”

“What if Daylan discovers what we’re up to?” Drewish asked. “He is a persuasive man. Alun would gladly follow him, I think, right into a kezziard’s maw, if the old man asked it of him.”

“We can trust Alun,” Warlord Madoc said. “Daylan Hammer has no coin to buy the lad, and we’re offering him…more than he could ever dream. He’ll betray Daylan Hammer.”

“How can you be sure?” Drewish asked.

“His dogs,” Madoc replied. “Every day, Alun sends them to their deaths, betraying those that love him best. He’s grown adept at betrayal.”

Fallion strode purposefully down the rutted road toward the gates of Castle Coorm.

The sun was rising now, a brilliant gold rim of light on the horizon and not a cloud in the sky. Behind him, the others followed.

Each of them bore a torch, though Fallion made sure that his burned the brightest.

“Torch-bearer.” That was Fallion’s name among the flameweavers. Somehow, as he bore the torch toward the castle, he wondered if it was only descriptive, or if it was prophetic.

The castle gate was closed, the drawbridge had been raised again. Fallion could see a pair of mallards grabbling in the serene waters of the moat, splashing and preening, while their chicks bobbed about in their wake. But whenever he looked to the drawbridge, he suddenly had a flash of light that pierced his eye, and he saw the Seal of the Inferno, burning inside a ring of fire.

“Look,” Jaz muttered. “There’s the old rock where I used to hunt for that bullfrog. Do you think it’s still there?”

Fallion glanced at the rock, there at the side of the moat, with rushes growing up around it. He smiled at the memory. “Go and see, if you want.”

Jaz laughed. “Hey, can rocks shrink? This whole castle seems much smaller than it used to be.”

The guards atop the castle wall had taken notice of them, raising their bows and nocking arrows, crouching between the merlons atop the castle wall. There were eight archers. One guard raced down into the depths of the castle.

Fallion marched right up to the edge of the moat, where he and his brother had fished as children.

“That will be far enough!” a guard shouted dangerously from the wall. “State your name and business.”

“My name is my own affair,” Fallion said. “I have come to challenge Lord Hale to personal combat, to avenge the honor of this girl, the Lady Farion-and to avenge the honor of the land of Mystarria.”

Fallion heard a gruff laugh and the sound of heavy boots pounding up wooden stairs in the gate tower, just to his left. Lord Hale did not come swiftly. He came in a measured pace, ponderously, thump, thud, thump. By the creaking of wooden steps, Fallion could tell that he must be a hill of a man.

But when Lord Hale appeared, leering down over the battlements, Fallion was not sure that he was a man at all.

Lord Hale was huge, nearly seven feet tall and four feet wide at the shoulder. There was no beauty or grace in him. His flaccid jowls were so pale that he might never have spent a day in the sun, and his silver eyes were lifeless and hollow, like pits gouged in ice. He was bald on top, with a circlet of long greasy hair that covered his ears. It seemed to be silver on the ends, but looked almost as if it were rotting at the roots, like a tuft of cotton that has festered in its boll through the winter.

But it wasn’t just the man’s hair that seemed to be rotting. There were blotches on his forehead, yellow fungal growths layered over a patch of dirty warts.

He was toad of a man, a festering toad, dying from cankers.

And then there was his expression, his manner. He leaned his fat elbows upon a merlon and peered down upon Fallion with a superior air, and there was such malevolent intent lined upon every inch of his face, that Fallion had seldom seen the like.

It isn’t just his hair that is rotting, Fallion thought. It is all of him. The evil in him is so strong, it’s rotting him away.

Fallion peered at him, through him. He could detect no locus in the man’s soul, no festering evil from the netherworld. But Fallion had learned that not all evil men harbored the parasites. Greed and stupidity alone accounted for much evil in the world.