David Farland - Worldbinder

Instead he felt a rush of euphoria.

The child’s endowment had been stripped from him, and Areth Sul Urstone, who had endured greater tortures than any man had ever known, was suddenly free of pain.

Over the past fourteen years his body had become so accustomed to torture that the sudden absence was like a balm, sweet and soothing beyond measure.

But it was more than just physical pain that he found himself freed from. There was something more, something that only the presence of a great wyrm could explain. He suddenly felt released of all responsibility, of all guilt.

All of his life, his well-exercised sense of morality had guided his every deed.

Suddenly it was stripped away, and he perceived that he had been living his life in shackles. For the first time he was truly free-free to take whatever he wanted; free to kill or steal or maim.

Areth leaned his head back and laughed at the folly of the world.

“It is done,” the emperor cried, and wyrmling priest’s eyes went wide. It seemed that he could not drop to his knees and prostrate himself fast enough. “The Lady Despair walks among us in the flesh-” the emperor shouted, “let all obey her will.”

In the temple, the crowd let loose with cries of rapture. As one the wyrmlings fell down upon their faces, so that Areth was ringed by a throng of worshipers.

Areth felt surprised at first, but recognized the truth. Yes, Lady Despair was with him, the Queen of the Loci who had lived from the beginning.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined her just-discarded form, a world worm that now lay dead, floating in a pool of molten lava, a deserted husk.

Yaleen moved Areth’s hand, stared at it as if it were some foreign object. How long has it been since I have worn a human form? she wondered.

“You shall call me by a new name,” the Lady announced to her followers. “My name is Yaleen, as it was in the beginning; and you shall call me by a new title: I am your Lord Despair.”

Yaleen closed his eyes, and images flashed in his mind, the view of the world as seen from the eyes of a thousand evil creatures and men. A great war was brewing. Wyrmling troops had begun to destroy the newly discovered human settlements, harvesting the small ones, but now the small ones were arming themselves with bows of steel, mounting knights in armor with great lances. They would fight tooth and nail for their lives.

In the underworld, Yaleen’s great servants, the reavers stood ready to enforce his will.

Upon the One True World, the last remnants of the Bright Ones fled from his Darkling Glories.

But most imposing upon his vision was the City of Luciare. Yaleen’s Death Lord now held the city in his grip. Its troops had been slaughtered, and its doors were broken. Vulgnash had carried Fallion down from the mount and was flying rapidly to the courts of Rugassa.

The Death Lord waited now only for Yaleen’s final command.

Areth Sul Urstone had given his soul to save this city. Now, some small corner of his mind that still functioned peered at the miserable wreckage. He could not remember why he had paid such a price.

Yaleen sent her thoughts out, like a dark and grasping hand, and probed for the mind of her servant.

Leagues away at the ruins of Mount Luciare, the Death Lord now felt a familiar touch to his mind, and whispered, “Master, reveal thy will. What shall I do with this city?”

There was a moment of hesitation. Areth Sul Urstone felt almost as if Yaleen waited to consult him, to let him make the choice.

I gave my soul for my people, Areth reminded her.

Yet what did they give you in return? she asked. They left you in prison to die in torment. They never mounted an expedition to rescue you, never offered a coin to buy your freedom. You gave your all for them. And they offered you nothing in return. For many years now, they have laughed and loved in your absence. They have thrown their feasts and spawned their children. They have forgotten you.

The words felt like truth. How many times had Areth lain in his cell, wondering if anyone worried for him, or even remembered his name?

Areth felt empty inside, numb and lifeless. He no longer hoped for rescue. He needed none. Now he felt hurt. He only wanted to strike back at these petty creatures who had left him to his fate.

The choice was made.

“Go into the city, and make of it a tomb,” Yaleen whispered to the Death Lord.

The Death Lord shouted a command, and with a roar his troops raced through the ruptured gates.

Yaleen opened his eyes and gazed down now upon the wyrmlings in the temple, all lying prostrate before him. For countless millennia, Yaleen had longed for this moment-when the great wyrm could claim the soul of an Earth King.

Now, in triumph, Yaleen raised his left hand and peered down upon the wyrmling hosts that prostrated themselves. “I choose you,” he shouted, his commanding voice echoing through the stone chambers. “I choose you for the twisted Earth.”

He felt a connection establish between himself and his acolytes, like an invisible thread that bound him to each and every soul in the room. He would know where they were at all times. He would sense when they were in danger and he would utter the warnings that would spare their lives.

Thus, his armies would sweep across the worlds, destroying everyone who opposed him.

In Caer Luciare, thousands of women and children gathered at the eastern edge of the city, filling every room and every tunnel. They stood silently, straining to hear. The terror in the tunnels was palpable, and lay thick in their throats. Some of the children whimpered.

With a roar, the wyrmling troops flooded into the warrens, their Death Lord leading the way.

Inside the city, dark as a tomb, the floors rumbled beneath iron-shod feet, and wyrmling cries shattered the stillness.

“They are coming!” guards shouted down the corridors, each man gripping his weapon, falling back behind the Wizard Sisel. The warrior clans stood ready to oppose the enemy for as long as possible.

Siyaddah looked toward her father. At her side, her father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The city’s long war with the wyrmlings was over, and the men of Luciare had lost.

The wizard glanced down the halls one last time. He waited for long and long, until the wyrmlings could be seen down the corridor, the lights winking out before them. A dark, nebulous form floated ahead-the Death Lord, eager to feed.

The guards backed off, leaving Sisel alone to bar the way. The Earth Warden raised his staff protectively, singing an incantation so softly that Siyaddah could not hear his words.

At Sisel’s back, the people huddled.

“Fear not,” Siyaddah’s father called out. “The Death Lord feeds on fear.” His command was fruitless. The women and the children still sobbed. But it gave them some comfort to hear from a warlord, particularly one of her father’s stature. With Madoc and High King Urstone both dead, the warriors would be confused as to whom to follow. Had one of Madoc’s foolish sons had the wits, he would have stepped into the breach and taken command. But Siyaddah’s father was filling that void.

Lights winked out in the darkened corridor as the Death Lord drew near.

The Wizard Sisel raised his staff, as if welcoming the creature to battle. “So, my old friend,” Sisel said, “you come to me at last.”

“We were never friends,” the Death Lord whispered.

“You were my master,” Sisel said. “I loved you as a friend. My respect for you never languished. My faithfulness never faltered. It was you who faltered…”

“Do you expect a reward?” the Death Lord demanded. “I have little to offer.”

Siyaddah breathed, and the breath steamed from her throat. The walls of the cavern had suddenly grown icy, rimed with frost. Already, the Death Lord was leeching the life from the seeds and herbs here.