Worldbinder

LUCIARE

“Why are they cheering so?” Jaz asked, for as they marched through the city gates, the warriors beat axes against shields and roared. Nor did the applause die, but kept growing stronger.

Talon leaned down and said softly, “Because you slew a Knight Eternal. They saw it, and even now there are tales circulating of how you slew another at Cantular. No hero of legend has ever slain two of them. The warriors of Luciare have often driven them back from the castle, and sometimes escaped their hunts. But never do they slay the Lords of Wyrm.”

As they entered the city, the warriors cheered Jaz and gathered around, then lifted him onto their shoulders and paraded him through the streets.

Fallion gazed up at the city in wonder. The streets wound up through the market district here, and higher on the hill he could see a stouter wall. Above them, the lights played across the whitened walls of the mountain, flickering and ever-changing in hue, like an aurora borealis.

Soldiers patted Fallion on the shoulder and would have borne him away, but Fallion shook his head and drew back. In his mind, the words echoed, “though the world may applaud your slaughter, you will come to know that each of your victories is mine.”

Fallion felt a wearying sadness. Once again, men applauded him for his capacity to kill, and he could not help but worry that somehow he was furthering the enemy’s plans.

Fallion looked around; people were smiling at him, but they were strange people, oddly proportioned. He saw a boy that could not have been more than ten, but he was almost a full head taller than Fallion.

Shrinking back, Fallion felt very small indeed. He was a stranger in this land of giants.

Talon had said that men of the warrior clans had grown large over the ages due to selective breeding. But even the commoners here seemed massive.

The warriors’ seed has spread throughout the population, Fallion realized.

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.