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 world.”
SMALL FOLK
As a young man, I was taught that to be a warrior is the epitome of virtue, and that warriors should be held in greater esteem than other men. We are the protectors, after all.
But what does a warrior create? Should not the farmer pruning his orchard be granted equal esteem? Should not the mother nursing her child be deserving of greater praise?
All of my life, I have felt like a fraud. I have been humbled by humble men.
Never was it more so than when I first saw the small folk of the shadow world.
Alun came staggering into camp on rubbery legs that night, well after dark. He was supposed to have run a hundred miles, but of course his energy gave out.
The other warriors drove him anyway, hurling curses and encouragement at him in equal measure. “You’re a warrior now!” “Move those damned spindly legs!” “Does a wolf tire when it runs to battle?”
They laughed, and the tone seemed kindly enough.
But they were going to kill him, Alun knew.
He realized it as soon as his legs gave out, and he went sprawling in the dirt.
Drewish had urged him on with a swift kick to the ribs and a derisive laugh, and had rushed on. But Connor had only halted long enough to yell, “Get off your lazy ass. We’ll have no laggards.”
Alun had fumbled about, gasping for air, and Connor just rolled his eyes. At last, he picked Alun up by the scruff of the neck, half carrying him, and ran, holding him upright, forcing him to move his tired legs.
After a few miles of this, Alun fainted, and woke to find that some burly soldier was carrying him on his back as if he were a corpse. When Alun groaned, the fellow laughed and dropped him to the ground. “Come now, no bellyaching. We’re off to battle. Let’s hear a war song out of you.”
And that was when Alun knew they were going to kill him. Madoc had given him the honor of joining the clan, and now he’d send him to the front of the line to be slaughtered by wyrmlings.
They weren’t about to let a mongrel like Alun breed with their precious daughters.
That was it, he imagined. Or else they want to kill me because they know what I did. Had someone told Madoc about his meeting with the high king?
The king had assured Alun, “This meeting must be kept private. Tell no one. I want to see my son take the throne someday. Not just for me, but as Daylan Hammer has said, for you, too, and for your posterity.”
No, Madoc and his men don’t know what I did, Alun decided. They only know what I am.
And so he ran as well as he could, and he was dragged and carried and kicked the rest of the way.
He didn’t make it a hundred miles. But he had run forty, he felt certain.
It was a good account for one of the serf-born caste. There were rumors that one of his great grandmothers had been bedded by a warrior, and thus he claimed some decent blood. But the same could be said of every serf in the kingdom.
Every bone in his body ached, and when he tried to pee that afternoon, there was blood in his urine from the pummeling his kidneys had taken during the run. He felt too tired to care.
The last few miles were the hardest. They had reached a strange canyon called the Vale of Anguish. Here, odd rock formations stood, piles of rubble that often looked more like men than rocks should, almost as if monstrous deformed beings had been turned to stone.
There were caves in the hills here where the warriors could hide for the night, and get some sleep-or fight, if they were backed into a corner.
But when he got to camp, lit only by starlight and a scythe of a moon, it was abuzz with excitement.
“They found little people-” someone was saying, “tiny folk that don’t know how to talk. They live in huts made out of stones, with roofs made from sticks and straw. There’s a whole village of them, just beyond the hill.”
Alun would never have believed such nonsense under normal circumstances, but in the last day, the world had turned upside down. Forests had sprung up where there should be none. Mountains had collapsed and rivers changed their courses. Anything seemed possible.
“Little people,” a soldier laughed, “what good are they? Can’t eat ’em, can you?”
For effect, he tore off a huge piece of bread with his teeth, as if he were rending a little person.
“Maybe we’ll find some use for their women,” another jested, and he was joined by gruff laughter.
Alun wondered. He wanted to see these little folk, but his legs were so sore that he didn’t think that he could walk up the hill. Still, he grabbed a loaf of dry bread from a basket, along with a flagon of ale, and slowly crept up the steep hill, past soldiers who were feeding and laughing.
He caught bits of conversation as he went. “River’s flooded up ahead, they say. We’ll have a rough swim of it.”
“I can’t swim,” a heavy warrior said.
“Don’t worry,” the first said. “You just float, and I’ll drag you along.”
“That’s the problem,” the heavy one said. “I can’t float. Bones are too heavy. I sink like an anvil. Always have. I just hope the king lets us take the bridge.”
Atop the hill, High King Urstone, Warlord Madoc, the Emir of Dalharristan, the Wizard Sisel, and other notables all stood beneath a stand of sprawling oaks, peering down at a strange little village.
As the soldiers had said, there were houses made of small stones, and other houses made of mud-and-wattle, all with roofs formed from thick layers of grass, tied in bundles and woven together. There were small gardens around the houses, all separated from one another with rock walls.
There were folks outside of the houses, worried little folk, men with spears and torches, women with clubs. They weren’t as small as Alun had hoped they would be. He wouldn’t be able to pick one up in his hand. But they were short, more like children than adults, that was certain.
King Urstone was admiring their village. “They’re tidy things, aren’t they,” he said. “Clever little houses, lush little gardens. Perhaps we could learn from them.”
“I suppose,” one of the warlords said. “Though I don’t see much good that will come of it.”
“What will we do?” King Urstone asked the lords around him. “They’re obviously frightened of us, but we can’t just leave them here, unprotected, with the wyrmlings about. The harvesters would have them in a week. For their own sake, we have to get them back to Caer Luciare, even if we must drag them.”