David Farland - Worldbinder

“I know you,” Hale leered. “I knew you’d come back. I told her, I did. I says to Shadoath, ‘Let me watch the castle here. They always come back.’”

So, Fallion realized, the man worked for Fallion’s old enemy. Hale had manned his outpost for years, and even now perhaps was unaware that the war was over and that Shadoath had lost. The very fact that Hale had come with Shadoath though, gave Fallion pause. And briefly Fallion wondered if Shadoath had returned-if the locus had taken a new body.

Perhaps Hale is not human, Fallion thought. Shadoath had brought fallen Bright Ones and golaths with her from the netherworld, along with her strengi-saats. It was possible that Hale was something other than human, some breed of giant.

Hale studied Jaz, Rhianna, and Talon, gave an approving nod. “So, I knew you’d come back,” he said smugly. “But I didn’t know you’d come back like salmon-to spawn.”

He burst into a round of crude laughter, and some of the archers on the wall followed suit.

He plans to kill us, Fallion knew, but he won’t try it yet. He wants to savor the moment, draw it out.

“So, I remember you,” Hale said. “Do you remember me?”

Fallion shook his head. “No.”

“We’ve met before,” Hale said. “I’ll give you a hint. It was on that day you run off.”

Fallion remembered. Lord Asgaroth had brought troops to the castle, surrounded it, and then demanded that Fallion’s mother offer up her sons as hostages.

Fallion himself had stood on the wall and given his answer, commanding the archers to open fire.

“I remember,” Fallion said, not completely sure. “A fat man on a pony, a giant of a target, rushing off. I remember a fleeting thought, ‘How could they miss that one!’”

Lord Hale roared in glee. Oh how he was savoring the moment. Fallion calculated that in an instant, he would command his troops to fire.

So Fallion took the initiative.

“I did not command my men to fire lightly,” Fallion said. “It is a grave thing to take another’s life, even if it must be done to satisfy justice.”

Hale mocked his choice of words. “Oh, it is indeed a grave thing to take a life. Ain’t it lads?”

“I’m sorry now that I must take yours,” Fallion said. “I offer you one last chance. Surrender yourself, and I will be lenient.”

It was a sincere offer, but Hale merely grinned patiently and said, “Come and take my life, if you think you can.”

Fallion raised his hand, as he had upon that fateful day, and called out to Lord Hale’s troops. These were no men that he recognized from the old days when his family held this castle. These were rogues and bandits that had crawled out of the hills.

“You men upon the walls,” Fallion shouted. “I am Fallion Sylvarresta Orden, heir to Gaborn Val Orden, and rightful lord of this realm. I bid you to join in helping restore peace and prosperity to the land.”

He looked toward Lord Hale, and shouted “Fire!” as he made a pulling motion with his fist.

None of the archers fired upon Warlord Hale. But then Fallion hadn’t expected that they would.

Hale laughed in derision, looked right and left toward his archers. At his glance, the men stiffened, drew their bows to the full. His patience was at an end, Fallion could see. He was tired of playing.

In apparent resignation, Fallion said, “If your men won’t obey my command, perhaps the heavens will.” He raised his hand a second time and shouted “Fire!”

He let go of some the energy that had been stored in him, sent it questing behind him, used it to heat the torches so that they all flared up in an instant.

He gathered that heat and sent it racing through the air. The torches sputtered out as a dozen ashen war bows suddenly superheated and burst into flames. The well-oiled strings and the lacquer made perfect fuel.

At that instant, Fallion’s friends scattered, and Fallion drew a wreath of smoke about him, just in case any of the archers had the presence of mind to try to fire one last shot with the flaming bows.

A couple did, muttering curses as the arrows flew. But the sudden flames had spoiled their aim, and the worst that happened was that a fiery arrow blurred past Fallion’s shoulder.

Lord Hale barely had time to register his surprise. Perhaps he had not seen the unnatural gleam in Fallion’s eye, or perhaps he had not recognized it as the mark of a flameweaver. Too late he saw his mistake.

Fallion reached into the sky, sent his energy out and used it to gather motes of light from the heavens, as if trapping flies within a web.

From horizon to horizon the skies went black. Then he drew the light toward him in a fiery funnel, an infernal tornado that dropped white hot into his palm.

For half an instant, he let the fire build, and then hurled it toward Warlord Hale.

The fireball struck, hitting the warlord’s oily skin, his clothes, and Hale shrieked and tried to bat the flames away. But Fallion only intensified them, sent energy streaming into him so that as an outer layer of hair or skin or fat burned, steam rose from the inner layers, drying them until they caught flame too, then the layer below took fire.

It happened quickly, a few seconds at most, but Fallion burned the man, turning him into a fiery pillar of blackened ash and pain.

Only his eyes Fallion left untouched, so that Hale’s men might see the horror in them.

Lord Hale flailed about, shrieking, and then just staggered over the wall and dropped into the moat like a meteor, where his carcass sputtered and fumed in the water.

The guards all dove for cover, lest Fallion target one of them next.

Cheers arose from the commoners that Lord Hale had kept as his slaves in the castle, and suddenly there was the pounding of feet on stairs as some of them began rushing the guards, intent on taking vengeance for years of abuse.

Fallion and those outside the castle could do little now except wait for the drawbridge to open.

He peered at the bridge, and a Seal of the Inferno blossomed in his mind, a fiery wheel, striking him like a blow.

It seems so near, he thought. The seal must be nearer than I imagined.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his vision.

There were screams and the clash of arms coming from the castle. He worried for the peasants who were giving their lives in this battle.

He did not like the brutality, but he could not deny the people their well-deserved vengeance.

They hunger for it, Fallion thought, and by the Powers, after the horrors that I’ve seen, I’d like my fill of it myself.

Dogs can talk, Alun knew, and right now, Wanderlust was telling him that she smelled a wyrmling.

Oh, a hound doesn’t speak in words, but their bodies can tell you volumes.

Wanderlust stood with her muzzle pointed down a dank trail in the deepest shadows of a swamp, growling far back in her throat. Her tail did not wag, as it would if she only smelled a stag or a bear. Instead, her flanks quivered nervously, and the nub of her tail was as steady as a stone.

She turned and looked back at him, imploring with her eyes, asking what to do. If the wyrmling had been near, she’d have taken small leaps backward while peering in its direction. No, the trail was hours old.

“Leave it,” Alun whispered, gripping his short spear. “We’ve got better things to do.” He pointed to Daylan Hammer’s prints in the mud.

After accepting the honor of the hunt, Alun had gone to his room and retrieved his leather boots and a light spear. He took no armor, no heavy steel, sacrificing safety for speed. Daylan Hammer was small, but it was said that he could run with the speed of three men.