The king was marching up through the throng, the crowd parting for him like waters before the prow of a ship. He suddenly turned and called out, peering at Fallion.
Talon, who had been separated from Fallion in the crowd, called out the translation, from several yards away, leaping up to catch a glimpse of Fallion. “He thanks you for your help, and regrets that he must now go prepare for battle. He says that the wyrmlings will attack before dawn.” There was a question implied in that last bit. He needed help, Fallion realized, and wondered if Fallion would give it.
Fallion drew his sword, dismayed at the rust building upon it, and put its tip to the ground. He walked forward, and the crowd parted until he stood before the High King. Fallion knelt upon one knee, bowed his head, and said, “Your Highness, my sword and my life are yours to command.”
The king answered, and Talon translated, “Your sword and your life are yours to keep. I will not command your service, but I welcome your friendship-and that of your people.”
“That you shall have,” Fallion said.
The king smiled then, warmly, and a wistful look crossed his face. He whispered into the ear of the Wizard Sisel, then turned and strode up to the castle, his cape fluttering behind him.
Fallion retreated from the throng, tried to find a place in the shadows, away from the crowd, but the Wizard Sisel sought him out. “The king will be taking counsel with his troops. He has battle plans that must be seen to. But there are matters of great import to both of you that must be discussed. He wonders if you and your friends would like to refresh yourselves, perhaps wash up, and then meet him in his council chambers for a meal.”
“Tell him that I would be honored,” Fallion said.
Sisel headed through the throng. Reluctantly, Fallion and the others followed him up the winding streets, through the merchants’ quarter. The air was perfumed with the honeyed scent of flowers, for beneath every window was a flower box where blossoms of pink or yellow or white grew in a riot, streaming down from the second-story windows like waterfalls. Flowering vines sprang in curtains from mossy pots that hung from the lintels. Great bushes struggled up from pots beside the doors, and small forests rose up just behind the houses, while ivy climbed every wall. Lush grass and colorful poppies rioted at the margins of the road.
Life. Everywhere was life. Fallion had never felt so…overwhelmed by plants. It was almost oppressive. Even in the steaming forests of Landesfallen, flying among the trees upon his graak, he’d never felt so dwarfed.
And as he passed through the gate to the upper levels of the city, light was added to the foliage. Three vast tunnels opened as portals into the mountain. The mountain walls were paneled with huge stones, all limed a brilliant white, while runes of protection were embossed in gold there upon the walls outside of each tunnel.
Beneath each portal squatted a golden brazier, perhaps eight feet across, where pure blue-white lights flickered and played like lightning, sometimes changing hues to soft pink or fiery red.
They were fires, but they had no source. Fallion reached out with his senses, tested them. There was no heat there, only a piercing cold.
“What are those lights?” he asked Talon.
She hesitated, as if he had asked her something crude. “The soul-fires of those who died guarding this city. They come each night, and guard it still.”
Fallion veered to get a closer look as they passed under the arch, but Talon grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away, giving him a silent warning.
“I want a glance,” he said.
“Peering into the light is considered to be both disrespectful, and dangerous-” Talon said, “disrespectful because you would only witness the refuse of their souls, and dangerous because…seeing their beauty, you would long to become one of them. Leave those sad creatures to their duties.”
Light and life, Fallion realized. Sisel had said that he protected the city with light and life.
Then they were under the arches, into the tunnels, which grew dark and gloomy. The tunnels were lit by tiny lanterns that hung from hooks along the wall. Each lantern was blown from amber-colored glass and held a pool of oil beneath it. The oil traveled up a wick to a tiny chamber, where a candle-sized flame burned. Fallion had seen similar lanterns from Inkarra. There they were called “thumb lights,” for each lantern was no longer than a thumb.
The throng broke up, warriors retreating to their own private halls, and Talon led Fallion’s group down a long passage. The ceiling lowered and the hallway became almost cramped.
The mountain was a warren, a dangerous warren, for portcullises and dangerous bends were strewn all along the way. If it came to fighting, Fallion could see where an army could fight and then fall back, always defending from a well-fortified position. The wyrmlings with their great height would be at a disadvantage in such tight quarters.
We should be safe here, he thought.
THE REPORT
One has not failed, until one has quit trying.
“You failed?” Lady Despair asked.
Vulgnash knelt upon the parapet beneath Fortress Rugassa, the smell of sulfur clotting the air in the chamber as the unbearable heat rose up from the magma. The great wyrm had risen beneath him, its maw working as it spoke.
He wore a new corpse. It was two hours past sundown. It had taken time to find a new body, to prepare the spells that invigorated it.
Never in five millennia had he failed his master. His voice was thick with shame. “I captured the wizard, as you asked, and was bringing him here. But we were set upon by a great war party of humans. A king led them, a king upon whose shoulders rested the hope of his people. He bore a blessed sword. There was no fear in him that I could use, no hatred.”
The great wyrm did not hesitate. “Go back,” she said. “A war party will attack Luciare this night. The battle itself shall provide a distraction. Join the battle. Kill the king who bears the hopes of his people, and when he is dead, bring the wizard to me.”
“I will need new wings,” Vulgnash said humbly, “if I am to make it before dawn.”
“You shall have more than wings…” Lady Despair said.
“The branding irons from the otherworld?” Vulgnash asked, excitement rising in him. He had not had time to play with them, to test them.
“They are called forcibles, ” Lady Despair said. “There are slaves who will endow you with strength tonight. You will find them in the dungeon.”
Vulgnash’s mind raced as he considered the implications. For centuries now, Dread Lords like the emperor had been Lady Despair’s favorites, for they were wise in the ways of death magic. But they had rejected their own flesh, and thus could not benefit from this new magic, from these forcibles.
Vulgnash could. He could heap strength upon himself, and speed. He could become as beautiful as the moon and as fearsome as the sun. With enough forcibles, he could win back the trust and respect of his master. Indeed, Vulgnash imagined the day when he would become the new emperor.
“Thank you, master,” he said. “Thy will be done.”
THE KING’S COUNCIL
Even the wisest of men cannot foresee all ends.
