David Farland - Worldbinder

Down below, the wyrmling hordes still filled the courtyard. The army did not surge forward into the tunnels, nor did they fall back. Instead, they merely waited, as if for some further command.

Rhianna reached up and felt the knot at the base of her skull, smeared with blood. She could hardly think.

Footsteps came echoing up from the tunnel, and Daylan Hammer appeared around a bend, bearing a thumb-lantern.

He rushed up, spoke softly to Alun and Siyaddah for a moment.

“So is it true that they have Fallion?” Daylan asked Rhianna.

“Yes,” she said, looking back. Vulgnash was gone, far from her sight.

Daylan peered into the sky for a long moment, as if he could see what Rhianna could not. He was a Bright One of the netherworld, and as such, his powers of sight were legendary.

“Yes,” Daylan said at last. “He is gone…far beyond our reach-for now.”

He peered down at the armies massed before the gate, and said, “I wonder what they’re waiting for. The sun is coming. Surely they must be eager to take the city before dawn?”

He studied the army for a moment longer, then shouted, “Quickly, we must get down into the tunnels. There is one great battle left to fight!”

“When next you sleep…” Daylan Hammer had said. The words rolled over and over in Fallion’s mind, “When next you sleep…”

What had Daylan commanded?

That I dream, Fallion recalled dimly.

He was lying in the arms of a giant, flying through air both thin and cold. He could hear wings flapping, but he was so far under, he could not even open his eyes to look.

In a stupor, he reached up and grasped his cape pin, and immediately was thrust into another world. Here the skies were bluer than the darkest sapphire, and oak trees rose up like mountains among the hills, as if to bear heaven upon their limbs. Fallion was standing in a field of wheat that rose up to his chest, and an enormous owl came to him with broad wings and spoke an ancient name, Ael.

For the first time, Fallion realized that it was a question.

Yes, Fallion answered, I am Ael.

Fallion climbed its back, and as the great owl flew through a world that was now only a remembered dream, soaring over crystal lakes, swooping up to climb tall mountains whose skirts were covered with evergreens and whose mantles were draped in snow, finally to make his way at the end of the day toward a vast tree whose branches were filled with lights, Fallion began to recall.

I know that tree, Fallion thought. Its limbs and trunk were golden. Its broad leaves were dark green on the top, almost black in the failing light, but brighter underneath. He could hear the voices of women and children singing beneath the One True Tree, singing in a strange tongue that even his spirit had almost forgotten.

And the memories came. He had lived beneath the boughs of that tree once, had lived there for ages, in a city dug beneath its roots. And in its shade he had helped to maintain the great runes.

He remembered standing there, tending the runes hour after hour. His was the Seal of Light, a great circle of golden fire that bound the Seal of Heaven to the Seals of Earth and Water.

He knew its every texture and nuance, for over countless ages he had not only nurtured it, but with the help of the tree had formed it.

Now in his memory he stood above it, tending the multitude of tiny flames within it.

“Careful,” a still voice whispered in his mind. “The passions in that one are too strong. She must be mellowed.” It was the voice of the One True Tree, his companion and mentor, his helper in this great endeavor.

Fallion had turned his attention to the flame in question. It represented a young woman, one whose passions often rose high.

“Light-bringer,” a woman’s voice called. “What are you doing?”

Fallion turned and saw a beautiful young woman with raven hair and sparkling eyes. It was Yaleen, the woman whose passions he needed to soothe.

She strode toward him like a panther, like a huntress, her movements liquid and powerful…

And as Fallion’s body slumbered, and Vulgnash bore him to Rugassa, Fallion’s spirit began to wake.

Inside Mount Luciare, the humans huddled, awaiting the final onslaught. The hand of doom seemed to cover them like a roof. The thunder drums had gone silent. Everything was hushed.

Rhianna and the others came upon the Wizard Sisel down in the lowest depths of the tunnels. His head was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Thumb-lights lit the way, burning like the brightest stars, and the floors were strewn with herbs and seeds, so that the tunnel smelled like a garden. A roof had collapsed, and beyond a knot of warriors, rocks barred the way. The scent of stone and soil only helped to heighten the illusion that this was somehow a garden.

“What is happening?” Daylan Hammer called out.

“The enemy has withdrawn,” the wizard said in exasperation. “I do not know why. They are waiting…for something. My heart tells me that this bodes ill.”

“A Death Lord leads the wyrmling horde,” Daylan said. “He cannot risk the touch of sunlight, yet dawn is not half an hour away. He must enter the city before then.”

“I thought at first that the collapse of the tunnel had slowed them,” Sisel wondered aloud. “But that cannot be it.”

Suddenly, it seemed that his eyes caught the light of one of the thumb-lanterns, and they went wide.

“The wyrmlings will come, they must come. But when they do, we must hold them off until dawn. Unless…Quickly-gather the people. Get them to the eastern end of the city!”

The soldiers all stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Sisel was no warrior lord, with the right to command. No one seemed to be in command.

“Quickly,” Daylan shouted, for he seemed to divine the wizard’s plan, “do as he says!”

Areth Sul Urstone had never been inside a wyrmling temple, where those who hoped to receive wyrms committed foul deeds in order to prepare themselves for immortality. He had never wanted to be in one. He had only heard of the bloody rites performed there in whispered legend.

Areth was too weak from hunger and pain to stand. But he heard the red-robed priests shout in triumph. They stood with their backs to him, on a dais near the front of the temple. They suddenly backed away from an altar. One of the priests gripped a sacrificial knife.

Upon the altar, the wyrmling boy that had given Areth his endowment jerked, his legs pumping uselessly, as if in a dream he ran one final race with death.

Then the boy stopped, his muscles eased, and he lay still, blood dribbling from the open wound at his throat. His eyes stared uselessly toward the heavens.

With that, a bond was broken. Most of the ache and fatigue that Areth had felt eased away, dissipating slowly, as if it had all been an evil dream.

“Well done,” the emperor whispered. A wyrmling priest stuck his thumb into the blood at the boy’s throat, then pressed the bloody thumb between the child’s eyes, anointing him.

He stepped down from the dais, crossed the stone floor, and pressed his bloody thumb between Areth’s eyes, anointing him with the child’s blood.

Around Areth, on the stone benches beneath the altar, a crowd of wyrmling supplicants made a low moaning noise, a groan of ecstasy.

Areth closed his eyes and waited for the wyrm to take him. He thought that it would be a violent act, that he’d know when it came. He thought that he would feel a sense of entrapment, like a creature being forced into a cage.