After two hours, Kirissa was reeling from weariness. Even her good wyrmling breeding would not let her go on forever. Her steps became clumsy and she staggered almost blindly.
Still they ran.
A hill loomed ahead, a small hill on the rolling plains, and Cullossax told himself, I will climb that hill, and I can go no farther.
But Cullossax had one last hope. As a tormentor, he was allowed to carry a harvester spike to use in an emergency. It was in a pouch, hidden inside his belt.
In a battle, he would have jabbed the spike into his carotid artery so that the precious secretions on it could be carried quickly to his brain. Now he elected to use it more cautiously. He pulled the tiny bag from his belt and rammed the spike into his palm.
In seconds he felt his heart began to pound as adrenaline surged into him, granting him a second wind. His eyes misted, and a killing haze settled over them.
So he pounded through the deep grass, blazing a trail for Kirissa, until he neared the hill.
The hunters came for him then, howling and laughing in sport, rushing up behind.
They were almost on him now. He could practically feel their hot breath on the back of his neck. He was almost at the top of the hill. There was just one steep rise between him and the far side.
'Run!' he shouted to Kirissa. 'It is me that they want.'
He whirled to meet the tormentors, pitting the old magic of the harvester spike against the new magic of the Runelords.
Kirissa ran like the wind, and Cullossax wheeled on his foes. The wyrmlings that raced toward him hardly looked like men. Their faces were pocked and reddened from sunburn. Their eyes were glazed from physical abuse.
The men raced toward him at three times the normal speed, but the harvester spike had worked its magic. Time seemed to have slowed for Cullossax, dilating as it will when the passions run high.
He raised his javelin and feinted a thrust to one man s face, but instead hurled it low, catching the harvester in the hip. The man snarled in pain.
The fellow lunged at Cullossax, hurtling through the air like a panther.
The harvester spike was no match for endowments. Cullossax tried to dodge, but the man plowed into him anyway.
Cullossax was a big man, larger by far than most wyrmlings.
I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him.
He grappled with his attacker, pulling him in close, grabbing him in a bear hug and then crushing with all his might.
He heard ribs snapping, smelled the tormentor s sweaty clothes, saw the wyrmling s eyes widen in fear.
Then the attacker wrenched his arm down with surprising strength, and drew the black knife from its scabbard. Cullossax knew what the man was trying to do, and tried to stop him by hugging him tightly, holding his arms against his chest, but the attacker was too strong, too quick.
Cullossax felt three hot jabs in quick succession as a knife snicked up into his rib cage. Hot blood boiled from his wounds.
I do not have to kill him, Cullossax thought, only wound him.
With all of his might, Cullossax jerked his arms tight, snapping his attacker s back.
The knife came up, slashed Cullossax across the face, and then Cullossax hurled the tormentor away.
He stood for a moment, blinded by his own blood. The man that he d wounded with the javelin had pulled it free, and now was limping toward him.
Blood bubbled in the cavern of Cullossax s lungs, and he grew dazed. His head spun.
The wounded tormentor hurled his javelin, catching Cullossax in the sternum, just below the heart. The power of the blow, combined with his own dizziness, knocked Cullossax backward.
Cullossax lay on the ground, gripping the javelin.
He missed my heart, Cullossax thought. He threw too low. But it did not matter. His lungs had been punctured, and his life would be over in a matter of seconds.
His heart was pounding, and his tormentor laughed at him in derision, when suddenly Cullossax realized that he heard the thunder of hooves rising through the ground.
He heard Kirissa shout something strange, 'Gaborn Val Orden!' The name of her Earth King.
And suddenly he realized that they had reached human habitations.
Kirissa must have dashed over the hilltop just as a phalanx of horses crested from the other side.
Cullossax wrenched his neck and peered up the hill. He d never seen horses before, not like this.
These were blood-red in color. They wore steel barding on their heads and chests, and the metal masks made their faces look hideous and otherworldly.
Their riders were just as terrifying-wild human women with frightening masks and long white lances. Some of the women bore torches, and the horses red eyes seemed to blaze in the fierce firelight.
Their captain saw the three wyrmlings and shouted in some strange tongue. The riders charged toward the lone scout who was still standing, lances lowered.
Cullossax s eyes went unfocused then, as the wyrmling assassin met his fate. His death cries rent the air, a wailing sound like a dog dying.
Grinning in satisfaction, Cullossax faded toward unconsciousness.
Run, Kirissa, he thought. Perhaps when all the worlds are bound as one, we will meet again.
10
Wyrmlings are such needy creatures. Food, water, air-the Great Wyrm has provided for all of our needs. She even offers us immortality, so long as we obey her every demand. Blessed be the name of the Great Wyrm.
Talon walked into the Bright Ones sanctuary down a long winding tunnel, where the curved walls were as smooth as eggshell, a soft cream in color. The floor was formed from slabs of stone, with strange and beautiful knots and whorls chiseled into them. At the landing, the entryway fanned out into a great hall. It was unlike anything that Talon had ever imagined.
The room was large enough to hold ten thousand refugees and more. The walls off to her right seemed to be natural stone, as pale as cloud, and several waterfalls cascaded down over some rocks into a broad pool, raising a gentle mist. Lights like stars blazed above. They hung motionless in the air, only a dozen yards overhead, bright enough that they held the room in an enchanted twilight, as if just before the crack of dawn. Up near the top of the waterfalls, the stars gave just enough light that they nurtured some strange creepers that hung like tapestries from the rock, the pale leaves dotted with brilliant red flowers. White cave crickets sang in the wan light, creating a gentle music that merged with the tumble and tinkle of falling water.
Hallways and corridors yawned ahead, and many in the company forged deeper into the cavern, into antechambers where they might find some privacy and collapse for the night.
Few of the Bright Ones seemed to be here in camp. Talon saw no more than two dozen of their men and women in the cavern. Several of them moved off with Daylan Hammer into a small vestibule to hold their council.
She saw bright flashing lights a few moments later, and she went near the vestibule on the pretext of calming one of Alun s mastiffs that was trotting around, woofing in excitement.
Talon halted beside the stream, called to the dog, and scratched at its neck, beneath its fearsome collar. A white cricket fell from the roof and landed in the water. The stream boiled as a fish lunged up to take it.
