was her own energy that drove them.
It took great effort to get off of the ground. It was as hard as any race that she had ever run. Her heart hammered in her chest and blood throbbed through her veins as she took flight, but with a final leap she was in the air, her feet miraculously rising up from the ground.
She was boxed-in ahead. A two-story market rose up on one side, a sheer cliff face on the right. She flew to the market wall, batting her wings, and raised herself high enough so that she could grab onto the roof. With a burst of renewed fear, she clambered over the wall and rose into the air, flapping about clumsily like a new fledgling, grateful only to be alive and flying.
She wheeled about, heading upward, her heart pounding so hard that she grew light-headed. She had only one desire: to reach Fallion’s side.
Thunder drums roared and a deafening concussion blasted through the tunnels. Daylan Hammer, with his endowments of hearing, drew back from the door.
“King Urstone is flying up, bearing the wizard Fallion to safety,” the lookout called. “The wyrmlings have got battering rams.”
The thunder drums snarled, and from pedestals inside the iron door, archers shot arrows out through small kill holes.
There was a tremendous boom. Rocks cracked overhead; a split ran along the tunnel wall creating a seam, and pebbles and dust dribbled down. There were strange rumblings, the protests of stones stressed beyond the breaking point.
“Run!” Daylan warned. “The roof is going to collapse!” He whirled away from the great iron door, heard rocks sliding and tumbling outside, banging against the iron, sealing them in.
The warriors of the clan just stood, peering up at the widening rent. Time seemed to freeze.
Daylan could outpace them all, and right now he realized that he needed to do so. There would be no saving them if the roof came down.
“Flee,” he warned, hoping to save at least a few men, and then he darted between them, shoving men aside as lightly as possible, hoping not to throw them off balance.
A cave-in, he thought. This passage will be sealed, leaving only two entrances to defend.
By the time that most of the men had begun to react, he was thirty yards from the door and gaining speed. His ears warned when the rocks began to come down behind him.
He yearned to go back and dig out what men he could, but his duty was clear. Fallion Orden was of greater import than all the men in this cavern.
Vulgnash dropped from the wispy clouds, bits of ice stinging his face, and for a moment he just soared, floating almost in place as he studied the battle below. He was hidden up here, a shadow against the clouds.
Starlight shone upon Mount Luciare, turning the stone to dim shades of gray, almost luminous.
Distantly, he could hear the triumphant battle-cries of wyrmling troops, the rumble of thunder drums.
The city was in ruins. Mounds of dead men littered the streets between the lower gates and upper gates, and now the wyrmling troops had brought up battering rams and were attacking the great iron doors that sealed off the warrens.
Rents had opened up in the mountainside where great stone slabs had slid off, exposing some of the tunnels that had been dug into the mountain.
And there above the battle, a tiny set of wings fluttered clumsily.
It was no Knight Eternal flying there, he knew instantly. The wing-beats were ineffectual, and the body was too small to be one of his own kind. It was one of the small folk, a fledgling, new to wings!
Vulgnash knew that it was the custom among humans to claim wings won in battle.
If that small fledgling is not the wizard I seek, Vulgnash thought, it is one of his kin.
He studied its trajectory, saw where it flew-there, a parapet where another winged human lay wounded.
With a slight folding of the wings, Vulgnash went into a dive.
On the fifth level of the warrens, Alun raced up the gently sloping tunnel. Tiny thumb-lights, hanging from their pegs, lit the way like fallen stars.
But suddenly, the path ahead went black, and the smell of fresh air impinged on his consciousness. He’d found a rent. Part of the rock face had collapsed to his left, leaving the tunnel exposed.
And up ahead, the lights were all out.
He heard a distant wail, the death cry of an old man.
Alun raced past the rent, which was no more than twenty feet wide, and peered down. A hundred and fifty feet below, the wyrmling army crowded in the courtyard. A Death Lord stood at their head, a chilling specter whose form was so dark, it seemed that he sucked in all of the light nearby. There was a boom and the ground shivered beneath his feet, but there was no snarling as was found in the report of a thunder drum.
The wyrmlings had taken battering rams to the iron gates, the city’s last defenses.
“Hurry,” Warlord Madoc urged, racing past Alun.
Alun chased after Madoc, feeling naked, exposed to the sight of the troops below. The wyrmlings could not help but see them sprinting along the open cliff. But soon they were back in the darkened tunnels.
Madoc halted to light a thumb-lantern, and then they hurried ahead.
The knight’s trail would not be hard to follow. He left darkness in his wake.
He can’t be far ahead, Alun realized. It takes time to kill people, even women and babes.
They passed an apartment that had its door bashed in. Warlord Madoc stopped to survey the damage. The apartment looked like a slaughterhouse, with blood-splashed walls. Alun did not dally to gaze upon the faces of the murdered mother and her boys, the youngest just a toddler. Yet he could not help but notice with a glance that upon each of the dead, there was a red thumb-print between the eyes, as if the Knight Eternal had anointed them with blood. Alun knew the family, of course. The dead woman was Madoc’s wife.
Warlord Madoc roared like a bear when he saw her body, and went charging back out into the corridors, brandishing his war ax.
King Urstone is a dead man, Alun thought. If there was ever a chance that Warlord Madoc would forgive him for this debacle, the chance has passed.
No, Urstone had tried to save his son, and the imprudent attempt would bring ruin upon them all.
For that, it was only right that King Urstone should die.
Yet a part of Alun rebelled at the thought. It was not fair that Urstone had lost his son. It was not fair that he should die for loving too well. This was all a tragic mistake, and Alun worried that he was supporting a monster, that Warlord Madoc, despite his bravery and his prowess in battle, was the kind of man who would bring them all to ruin.
Let him die first, Alun silently prayed to whatever powers might be. Let Madoc die at the hands of a Knight Eternal.
They passed apartment after apartment, each much the same, each smelling of blood attar, each dark and bereft of life.
There were cries up ahead, a woman’s scream, and Warlord Madoc went bounding up the hallway.
Talon gave a cry and raced up at his back.
Alun felt strangely disconnected from his body. His heart pounded in fear. He couldn’t bear the thought of fighting a Knight Eternal in the darkness like this. It was madness. They’d all be killed.
Yet he sprinted to keep up, realizing that at the very least he would not die alone.
“Here!” Warlord Madoc shouted as he rounded a corner. Up ahead, thumb-lanterns still burned merrily. The Warlord raced to an open door and peered in.
“Welcome,” a voice hissed from within, “to your demise.”
“If I die,” Madoc growled, “then you will lead the way.” He raised his ax and charged.
Timing is everything in battle, Alun knew. Even a Knight Eternal might be struck down with a lucky blow. But it required perfect timing, and perhaps the element of surprise.
“Kill!” Alun growled, as he released his dogs.
