Worldbinder

THE COUNCIL

Alun struggled up toward Caer Luciare, his mouth agape.

There were trees everywhere, huge firs on the skirts of the mountain, white aspens along its top. They had grown in an instant, appearing as if in a vision, their shimmering forms gaining substance.

He had seen them as he fainted, and when he woke, aching and weary, everything had changed. The sun was still up, marvelously drawn back in the sky, and the hills were full of dust clouds and birds.

Daylan Hammer was nowhere to be seen.

Wanderlust had stayed at Alun’s side, and once he got to his feet, the dog set out on Daylan Hammer’s trail again. The dog was able to track him through the thick sod, heading straight for Caer Luciare.

But as Alun neared, he peered in stunned silence at the devastation. The fortress was in ruins. The mountain it had rested upon had dropped hundreds of feet in elevation, and with the drop, the whole structure of the mountain had changed. A stone cliff had broken away, exposing tunnels hidden beneath it like the burrows of wood worms in a rotten log.

Steam from the hot pools beneath the castle hissed out of a dozen rents, and the streams above the castle had been diverted. Waterfalls now emptied down the cliffs from three separate tunnels.

Everywhere, people were rushing to and fro like ants in a broken nest, and Alun staggered up to the castle in a daze, feeling wearier than he’d ever been.

He worried what would happen if the wyrmlings should attack. With the rents in the fortress, they’d have easy access. It might well be indefensible.

He put Wanderlust in the kennel, made sure that the dogs all had food and water, then went looking for Warlord Madoc.

He found him in the battle room, with the High King and his lords, having a shouting match. Daylan Hammer was there, too, and the Wizard Sisel. High King Urstone looked haggard upon his dais, as much shocked by the devastation as Alun. The Warlords standing in the audience hall appeared angry, as if seeking a target for their frustrations.

“I say we strike now, and strike hard!” Madoc roared.

“And leave ourselves defenseless?” the Emir asked. “There are breaches in our defenses. We need men to repair them, strong men like our warriors, and we need time.” The Emir was a tall man for one of his kind. He was shorter than Madoc, and much narrower of shoulder. But he held himself like a king, and thus seemed to cast a long shadow.

“And if the wyrmlings have such breaches in their defenses,” Warlord Barrest asked, “would it not be the chance of a lifetime? We might break into their prison with ease, and release the prince, and send out assassins against Zul-torac.”

“What weapon would you use to pierce his shadow?” the Emir asked. “Can it even be slain?”

“It can,” Madoc said, “with cold iron and sunlight.”

“That is but a presumption,” King Urstone said. “No one has ever killed a Death Lord.”

The Wizard Sisel said, “I think it is more than a presumption, it is a calculated chance. Sunlight would loosen the monstrous spells that bind his spirit to this world. It should weaken him to the point that he could be slain.”

King Urstone was a bit taller than Warlord Madoc, but narrower at the shoulder. He wore no badge of office. Instead, he wore a shirt of plain chain mail, covered by a brown cape, as if he were but another soldier in the castle. His face was wise and lined with wrinkles, and his beard, which was light brown going gray, made him look wiser still. He said reasonably “Attacking Zul-torac is foolhardy. You can’t reach him. He never leaves the warrens beneath Mount Rugassa. He hides among the shadows with the other Death Lords. You’ll never expose him to light. And if you were to attack, his reprisals would tear our realm apart. Let there be no talk of antagonizing Zul-torac. It is only because we hold his daughter hostage that we have enjoyed what little peace we could find these last few years. So long as Zul-torac lives, we can hope to live.”

The Emir had always been wise in counsel. Now he bent his head in thought. “Even if we tried to strike at the north, we might well find that this devastation-this spell-is but a local affair. It may have no effect upon Rugassa.”

He looked to the Wizard Sisel. “What think you, wizard? Is it a local affair?”

The Wizard Sisel leaned upon his staff and bent his head in thought. His face was burned by sun and wind, with cheeks the color of a ripe apple. His hands and fingernails were dirty from his garden, and his robes looked bedraggled. But he carried himself with dignity despite his ragged attire.

He was a powerful wizard, and it was his wards and enchantments that had long helped protect Caer Luciare. All ears bent as he voiced his opinion.

“It is no local affair,” the wizard said. Of them all, only his voice sounded calm and reasonable. “We saw a world fall from the sky, and now the whole world has changed. Grave changes have occurred. I feel it. The earth groans in pain. I can feel it in the soil, and hear it among the rocks. What the cause is, I do not yet know. But this I can say: it is time to prepare for war, not go to war. Did a wyrmling cast this spell-perhaps even Zul-torac himself? If so, he may have known the destruction it would bring. Leaving the castle now, leaving it undefended, would mean that we are playing into the enemy’s hands. And even if it was not a wyrmling who caused this destruction, this spell will rile them. Casting it is like beating a hornets’ nest with a stick. My feeling is that the wyrmlings will strike at us, no matter what.”

“Then it is even more imperative that we take Cantular now,” Madoc said. “By taking the bridge and holding it, we can forestall any attempt at a more serious attack.”

“Your argument is persuasive,” King Urstone said. “Almost, I would ride to war now. If Sisel is right, the wyrmlings will soon be on their way, and my son’s life is forfeit, for I cannot put my love for him above the needs of my people-

“However,” King Urstone continued, “I would have the counsel of Daylan Hammer on this, for he has wisdom gained over countless ages. This spell that is upon us, Daylan-this new world that fell from the heavens-have you heard of the like?” Urstone was an aging man, much worn by his office, and looked as drained as Alun felt. But he was of the warrior caste, and he was a powerful man. Indeed, Alun had never seen the king show a hint of weariness, until now.

Daylan Hammer strode to the center of the audience hall and pulled himself to his full height. Among the warriors, he was a small man, for none of them were less than a foot taller.

“There has never been the like,” Daylan said, “in all of the lore that I know. But upon the netherworld there has been the hope that such a thing would be.”

“A hope?” King Urstone asked in dismay.

“There has been the hope that someone would someday gain the power to bind worlds together.

“Long ago, there was but one world, and one moon, and all men lived in perfect contentment, in perfect peace. There was no death or pain, no deformity, no poverty or war or vice.

“But one went out from among our forefathers who sought power. She sought to wrest control of the world from the others. The control of the world was bound into a great rune, the Seal of Creation. She sought to twist it, to bind it to her, so that she would become the lord of the earth.

“But in the process of twisting it, the Seal of Creation was broken, and the One World shattered into many, into thousands and tens of thousands and into millions-each a world orbiting its own sun, each a flawed replica of that One True World.

“The world that you live upon,” Daylan said, “is but a flawed shadow of that world, like a piece of broken crystal that can only hint at what it once was.”

Daylan Hammer paused, and High King Urstone demanded. “Why have I never heard this lore?”

“It has been lost here upon your world,” Daylan said. “But it is remembered elsewhere, on other worlds.

“There has been a hope, a prophecy, that one among us would gain the power to bind the shadow worlds into one. If so, then I know who has done this. It may be that he has gained that power at last-”

“Or?” King Urstone demanded.

“Or it may be that the enemy has gained such control. Long has she endeavored, hoping to learn how to bind worlds into one. But that skill has eluded her.”

“This is madness,” Warlord Heddick cried. “What proof do we have that any of this is true?”

“If it is proof that you want,” Daylan said, “look inside yourselves. Some of you must feel the change. In the past two hours alone I have heard a dozen people talking of strange dreams, of other lives that they remember. If I am right, many of you have combined with your other self, a shadow self. And our captains tell us that thousands of our people have just vanished. I suspect that they are scattered across the earth, having also combined with their shadow selves. Those ‘dreams’ that you are having are not dreams, they are memories. They are the proof that you seek, and if you question those who have them, you will find that their stories, their memories, corroborate one another. Do any of you have them?”

Several warlords looked dumbfounded. Of them all, Warlord Madoc seemed most affected by Daylan’s words. His face went pale with shock, and he stood, trembling.

The Wizard Sisel bent his head in profound thought and muttered, “This matter…demands attention.”

It was at this moment that Warlord Madoc happened to glance toward the doorway and saw Alun standing there. He smiled secretively, nodded toward Daylan.

Immediately the blood drained from Alun’s face and his heart pounded. He feared that he would be called upon to betray Daylan Hammer, to speak against him here in public, and he was almost as afraid of speaking before the king as he was of dying. He swallowed hard, looked around.

Daylan had asked Alun to lie in his behalf. Daylan claimed that his own plans were superior to those of Warlord Madoc.

But were they?

Did Alun dare let the immortal steal off with the Princess Kan-hazur? Did they dare throw aside their shield now, when the castle had burst apart at every seam?

“What do you advise?” King Urstone asked Daylan Hammer.

“I think,” Daylan said, “that the Wizard Sisel speaks wisely. I think that you should look to your defenses, mend the walls of your fortress. It has served you well for many years, and you will need all of your strength to hold it now.”

The king nodded his head in thought, and Alun knew that he was persuaded to keep his troops home. It was the safest course, and to provoke the wyrmlings would be to condemn his son to death. Even after these many years, the king was loath to do so.

“Wait!” Warlord Madoc said, stamping his foot to gain attention. “Your Highness, before we give heed to the counsel of Daylan Hammer, there is something that you should know. Thrice in the past six weeks, he has left the hunt and gone off on his own. Four weeks past, I sent Sir Croft to follow him, and Sir Croft was found dead. Today, I sent young Alun here.”

He turned abruptly. “So, what did you learn?” Warlord Madoc demanded.

Alun caught his breath. If he told the truth, the warlords would test to see if Daylan Hammer truly was immortal.

If he lied, it could mean death for everyone else.

And then there was the matter of his reward…

“Daylan Hammer went to the Tower of the Fair Ones. There…he met with a wyrmling-” Alun said.

There were howls of outrage from the lords, “Traitor! Death to him!” Instantly the room flew into a commotion.

There was no time for questioning Daylan Hammer. He reached for his saber in a blinding flash, even as he tried to dodge toward the door. The angry lords took this as a sign of guilt.

Among commoners, he would have escaped easily.

But he was among warriors, men bred for battle for five thousand years. War clubs were thrown, and he dodged one, took another in the back. It sent Daylan sprawling, and he flashed his saber and neatly sliced the hamstring of Warlord Cowan. Madoc’s son Connor took that moment to lash out with a vicious kick to the head that knocked Daylan Hammer halfway across the room, right into the arms of Madoc himself, who grabbed the immortal and pinned him to the floor with his bulk.

There were shouts of “Hold him!” “Grab him!” “Ow, damn!” “Throw him in the oubliette; maybe a swim in the piss will settle him down!”

Soon, half a dozen of the younger warlords each had a piece of Daylan-an arm here, a leg there-and though Daylan thrashed and kicked at them, they went lugging him past Alun, taking him to the oubliette.

Alun saw Daylan’s face red with rage and exertion as he passed.

“Alun?” Daylan said in dismay, astonished that the lad had betrayed him.

And then the young warlords were gone, dragging their prisoner to the oubliette.

The king hunched upon his dais, looking old and bewildered, while the warlords waited upon his word.

Alun found himself staggering forward. He wanted to explain what Daylan had done, his reasoning, for he was sure that that would earn Daylan some leniency.

But the very notion that Daylan was conspiring with the wyrmlings proved his treachery as far as the warlords were concerned.

“Uh,” Alun began to say, but a huge hand slapped him on a shoulder, startling him. It was Drewish, leering down at him threateningly.

“Well done,” Drewish whispered. “You will dine at our family’s table tonight. And tomorrow, you will come with us into battle, as one of the warrior clan.”

At the promise of reward, Alun fell silent.

The old king nodded at his men, his face filled with endless sadness.

“Madoc is right. There may never be a better time to attack,” the king said. “For long I’ve hoped to win my son’s freedom, and I’ve listened to Daylan’s counsel. But I can hesitate no longer. The good of my people must outweigh my own selfish desires. Prepare for battle.”