Worldbinder Part 15

-Daylan Hammer Daylight came to the privy, the softest blush of light shining through the holes up above. With the dawn came an unwholesome rain as hundreds of soldiers relieved themselves of the waste from last night's feast.

Daylan Hammer stood stoically, head bowed, mouth tightly shut, and endured.

He had been standing so long that once in the night, all of the blood had rushed to his feet, and he had staggered and fallen in the mire.

So he had learned, and now he raised his feet every now and then, stamping them in the filth, so that he made sure to keep blood pumping to his head.

It will end soon, he thought. The warriors will be leaving at dawn.

And after an hour, they seemed to be gone. No more foul rains hurtled down, no crude jests or harsh laughter a.s.sailed him.

He waded to the far end, then reached up and began trying to climb out of the privy.

There was little to hold onto. The walls were wet and slimy. Mold and unhealthy funguses grew upon them, making them slick. There was no brickwork or mortar here, with crevices that he might slip his fingers into, just solid rock worn smooth over the ages.

Still, he had to try.

He pressed his fingernails into a sheet of mold, hoping that it might give him some purchase.

He was wet, soggy, and that added extra pounds.

He pulled himself up slowly, and let the urine drip off of him a little, hoping to reduce his weight. But the sheet of mold broke free, and he slid back.

I would weigh less if I were naked, he decided.

He did not want to suffer that indignity. He didn't want to risk having someone see him squirming as he struggled up out of the privy.

On the other hand, I doubt whether I ever want to wear these clothes again, he told himself.

With grim determination, he shucked off his pants, ripped off his tunic, and began the climb.

It took him nearly an hour to get ten feet up the wall. But from there, the slope suddenly got steeper. By then, his fingernails and toenails bled, and he was straining every muscle.

He dared not rest. He was too wet and slimy. Each time he laid against the wall, he merely slid back into the cesspool.

If I were dry, he thought, perhaps I could get more friction, perhaps I could make it.

And so he clung in one spot, sweat streaming down his forehead and from his armpits and chest, hoping to get dry enough so that he might find some purchase.

All of his endowments of strength and grace could not suffice to get him one foot farther up the wall. Only superhuman effort had gotten him this far at all.

Suddenly, he heard a soft thud, and a coil of rope came twisting down out of the darkness.

Who? he wondered. Daylan had seen the grief-stricken look on Alun's face when he'd been arrested. He wondered, Is he trying to make amends?

But it wasn't Alun who spoke. It was the High King himself, his mournful voice echoing in the small chamber.

"Daylan Hammer, the troops are a.s.sembled at the gate, and soon they will be gone. The guard will be light. There are those who would thwart you, if they knew of your purpose. But I wish you well. By the Powers that preserve us I beg you, save my son."

20.

TROPHIES OF THE HUNT.

There is a special bond that develops between the hunter and the hunted. They share a similar thrill, a visceral excitement that is only aroused when a life is placed in jeopardy. It is Lady Despair's will that everyone should learn the joy of the hunt. And in the proper time, everyone should share the thrill of being hunted.

-Zul-torac As the shadows deepened and grew long upon the land, Fallion and his friends huddled in silence. Fear and antic.i.p.ation were thick in the air, and none dared stir in the small loft. Every tiny noise, every little breath, every scuff of a foot as it was rearranged on the wooden floor, seemed amplified, as if striving to give them away.

The heartbeats of Fallion and his friends sounded as loud as drums.

There was little light. A handful of dying light-berries lay sprawled upon the floor.

This is not natural, Fallion thought, as his pounding heart drummed faster, filling the small room with its deep, echoing beat. He peered around the room at the others. This is a spell of some sort, perhaps cast by a sorcerer of the air.

He tried to still his breathing, remain quiet. He could not really see the others in the room. The light-berries had gone too dim. He could only sense their presence by virtue of sound, by body heat, by scent. Only the slightest bit of starlight shone through the hide window pane. Yet he could tell that they were struggling to remain silent, too.

"By the Powers," Talon swore softly, "the hunters are on our trail." She spoke in a whisper, but the sound seemed to echo through the room like a shout.

What kinds of hunters have such power, Fallion wondered, that they can magnify the heartbeats of their prey?

Almost, Fallion feared that his very thoughts would echo from the stone walls like a song.

Outside the room, down on the street, he heard marching feet, a hundred or more wyrmling troops. There was the usual clanking of armor, the swearing in some strange tongue, and the gruff shouts of a commander.

But there was something more. There was an itching across the bridge of Fallion's nose, a crawling sensation that Fallion had learned to recognize long ago. Loci. There were loci in the soldiers outside, beings of pure evil.

They're coming for us, he thought as sweat dribbled down his brow. He gripped his long sword firmly, wishing now that he had taken those endowments of brawn proffered by his friends among the Gwardeen.

No, I do not wish that, he told himself. They will need their own strength in the days to come. And his heart went out to them, there across the sea, as he silently wished them well.

He strained to hear if the marching feet would stop at the small shop, to hear if the soldiers would turn.

Perhaps, he thought, someone saw us enter the building. They could come right to us.

But no, after several long minutes, the soldiers marched down the road, heading back east, toward Castle Coorm.

Perhaps that is where they are going. Perhaps they have orders to hunt for me.

At long last, the sound of marching feet faded into the distance, and everyone let out a sigh.

But the sounds of the room were still amplified. The heavy breathing still resounded from the walls, even louder than before.

They're coming for me, Fallion knew, the winged hunters. They're coming, and they're getting closer. Any minute now, and they will be here.

He almost wanted to risk a little light. He had used his flameweaving powers during the heat of the day to store energy, and right now it was leaking from every pore. To those nearby, his skin would feel fevered.

But he dared not risk it.

So he waited for a long half hour. The sounds of their breathing, of hearts pounding, grew ever louder.

Something whisked past the window, blocking out the starlight for an instant-an owl perhaps. Fallion hoped that it was only an owl.

A moment later, the sounds faded. The room went quiet. Fallion could still hear the blood pounding in his ears, but it was greatly diminished.

Rhianna gave a relieved sigh, and Jaz whispered, "They've left."

Suddenly the ma.s.sive stone roof went blasting into the air, as if tossed aside by the hand of an angry G.o.d. The huge slab walls shattered, seemingly hit by battering rams, and Fallion found himself sitting exposed upon a platform.

Overhead, blotting out the stars, were three beings, floating in the air. Their great wings spread out wide as they hung in a soft breeze, every so often flapping almost silently.

All three of them were clothed in red.

Fallion had never sensed such evil, not in Asgaroth, not in Shadoath. It was palpable, like a stink.

"We're found!" Jaz shouted, drawing his bow. Rhianna shrieked and leapt to her feet, battle staff at the ready.

Talon cried out, "Ah, the Knights Eternal. We're undone!"

Fallion knew of only one way to fight a locus. He did something now that he had tried only once before.

He blazed, sending out a bright light, as blinding as the sun. Light bled from every pore, spreading from him like a beacon. One of the Knights Eternal threw up a hand to shield his eyes. At that moment, Jaz loosed an arrow.

It blurred like a bolt, striking one of the creatures in the chest.

The Knight Eternal let out a resounding wail, a freakish cry as if from a wounded wolf, and then crumpled, bits of decayed flesh raining down, even as its wings collapsed like a sheet in the wind.

Vulgnash whirled, looked to where Kryssidia had been. The Knight's flesh had come unbound.

No weapon forged by mere mortals should have been able to do that. Only weapons enchanted by a powerful undine could do that, and Vulgnash had rid the earth of such wizards long ago.

The light intensified, striking Vulgnash like the sun, lashing at him. The human wizard was powerful, more powerful than any that he had met in five thousand years.

I know this one, Vulgnash realized. The Torch-bearer walks the earth again.

This disconcerted him, but did not strike fear into Vulgnash's heart.

The Torch-bearer had great powers. But he had greater weaknesses.

Fallion blazed like the sun, wielding the light as if it were a sword. He could see the loci now in his enemies, as he used the light to pierce their spirits. The spirits of his enemies were like b.a.l.l.s of soft blue light, with tentacles of energy worming through them.

In a healthy person, the light would be brilliant, effervescent.

But Fallion spotted black parasites feeding upon the husks of the creature's shriveled souls-dark forms that looked like enormous water fleas. They were the loci.

"By the Powers," Fallion commanded, "depart!"

He lashed out, sending his brilliance to burn the loci, hoping to sear them into oblivion.

And as quickly as he did, the light faded.

One of the Knights Eternal stretched out a hand, and all of the light Fallion radiated snuffed out.

Fallion sent a surge of energy, hoping to break the spell, and a fiery rope of heat went twisting into the enemy's palm.

The Knight Eternal hurled the fireball back toward Talon, and it took all of Fallion's skill to shunt it aside before it washed over her.

"Flameweavers!" Rhianna shouted.

I'm defenseless, Fallion thought.

Jaz tried to nock another arrow, but as he did, one of the creatures dove and pointed a finger.

A blast of icy wind washed over the group, hit them like a blow. Jaz and the others cried out and went sprawling across the floor. The wind was colder than the tomb, and it sucked the air from Fallion's lungs.

Fallion fell backward, found himself dangling over the edge of the wall. Suddenly he was cold, so deadly cold that he could not feel his hands, his feet, his face. His heart beat frantically, but Fallion could not move. His muscles would not respond.

He tried to lift his hand, to cry out or run, but every nerve seemed frozen.

I'm dead, he thought. I'm dead.

The enemy dropped from the sky, landing to the wooden floor with a thud, and came striding over to him.

Fallion could not so much as blink.

A tall figure all in robes and a cowl loomed above him, revealed by the light of a crescent moon. The evil of its presence smote Fallion, washed over him like filth; Fallion tried to crawl away.

The wyrmling peered at him, then reached down and stroked Fallion's cheek. Like a lover, Fallion thought. He stroked me like a lover. But, No, he realized. He strokes me like a hunter who admires a prized kill.

The cowled figure spoke in a strange tongue, yet there must have been a spell upon Fallion, for he also heard words ringing in his mind.

"Welcome, little wizard," the wyrmling said, "to my my world." world."