The Death Lord waited now only for Yaleen’s final command.
Areth Sul Urstone had given his soul to save this city. Now, some small corner of his mind that still functioned peered at the miserable wreckage. He could not remember why he had paid such a price.
Yaleen sent her thoughts out, like a dark and grasping hand, and probed for the mind of her servant.
Leagues away at the ruins of Mount Luciare, the Death Lord now felt a familiar touch to his mind, and whispered, “Master, reveal thy will. What shall I do with this city?”
There was a moment of hesitation. Areth Sul Urstone felt almost as if Yaleen waited to consult him, to let him make the choice.
I gave my soul for my people, Areth reminded her.
Yet what did they give you in return? she asked. They left you in prison to die in torment. They never mounted an expedition to rescue you, never offered a coin to buy your freedom. You gave your all for them. And they offered you nothing in return. For many years now, they have laughed and loved in your absence. They have thrown their feasts and spawned their children. They have forgotten you.
The words felt like truth. How many times had Areth lain in his cell, wondering if anyone worried for him, or even remembered his name?
Areth felt empty inside, numb and lifeless. He no longer hoped for rescue. He needed none. Now he felt hurt. He only wanted to strike back at these petty creatures who had left him to his fate.
The choice was made.
“Go into the city, and make of it a tomb,” Yaleen whispered to the Death Lord.
The Death Lord shouted a command, and with a roar his troops raced through the ruptured gates.
Yaleen opened his eyes and gazed down now upon the wyrmlings in the temple, all lying prostrate before him. For countless millennia, Yaleen had longed for this moment-when the great wyrm could claim the soul of an Earth King.
Now, in triumph, Yaleen raised his left hand and peered down upon the wyrmling hosts that prostrated themselves. “I choose you,” he shouted, his commanding voice echoing through the stone chambers. “I choose you for the twisted Earth.”
He felt a connection establish between himself and his acolytes, like an invisible thread that bound him to each and every soul in the room. He would know where they were at all times. He would sense when they were in danger and he would utter the warnings that would spare their lives.
Thus, his armies would sweep across the worlds, destroying everyone who opposed him.
In Caer Luciare, thousands of women and children gathered at the eastern edge of the city, filling every room and every tunnel. They stood silently, straining to hear. The terror in the tunnels was palpable, and lay thick in their throats. Some of the children whimpered.
With a roar, the wyrmling troops flooded into the warrens, their Death Lord leading the way.
Inside the city, dark as a tomb, the floors rumbled beneath iron-shod feet, and wyrmling cries shattered the stillness.
“They are coming!” guards shouted down the corridors, each man gripping his weapon, falling back behind the Wizard Sisel. The warrior clans stood ready to oppose the enemy for as long as possible.
Siyaddah looked toward her father. At her side, her father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
The city’s long war with the wyrmlings was over, and the men of Luciare had lost.
The wizard glanced down the halls one last time. He waited for long and long, until the wyrmlings could be seen down the corridor, the lights winking out before them. A dark, nebulous form floated ahead-the Death Lord, eager to feed.
The guards backed off, leaving Sisel alone to bar the way. The Earth Warden raised his staff protectively, singing an incantation so softly that Siyaddah could not hear his words.
At Sisel’s back, the people huddled.
“Fear not,” Siyaddah’s father called out. “The Death Lord feeds on fear.” His command was fruitless. The women and the children still sobbed. But it gave them some comfort to hear from a warlord, particularly one of her father’s stature. With Madoc and High King Urstone both dead, the warriors would be confused as to whom to follow. Had one of Madoc’s foolish sons had the wits, he would have stepped into the breach and taken command. But Siyaddah’s father was filling that void.
Lights winked out in the darkened corridor as the Death Lord drew near.
The Wizard Sisel raised his staff, as if welcoming the creature to battle. “So, my old friend,” Sisel said, “you come to me at last.”
“We were never friends,” the Death Lord whispered.
“You were my master,” Sisel said. “I loved you as a friend. My respect for you never languished. My faithfulness never faltered. It was you who faltered…”
“Do you expect a reward?” the Death Lord demanded. “I have little to offer.”
Siyaddah breathed, and the breath steamed from her throat. The walls of the cavern had suddenly grown icy, rimed with frost. Already, the Death Lord was leeching the life from the seeds and herbs here.
“Come then,” the Wizard Sisel said, “and give me what you can.”
With a cry like wind screaming among the rocky crags of some mountain cavern, the Death Lord came, rushing toward Sisel.
Wyrmlings by the dozens followed in its wake.
The wizard stood calmly as if waiting, and as the Death Lord neared, he swung his staff.
But he swung too early. The Death Lord was still at least a pace away.
The dark specter halted for half an instant as the wizard’s swing went wide.
He missed! Siyaddah realized, fear rising up in her throat.
Then the staff struck the wall. Rocks and dirt exploded outward by the ton, and a crude opening gaped wide.
Beyond the fissure, dawn light was beginning to fill the skies. The rising sun rimmed the horizon in shades of pink, as was befitting a perfect summer morn.
At the touch of the sunlight, the Death Lord shrieked, and for an instant it seemed that the shadow gained more substance, becoming a creature of flesh. She could see a man, like her, not a wyrmling. His face was lined with countless crags, as if he had aged and aged for a thousand years. His eyes were a sickly yellow, and his silver hair hung as limp as cobwebs.
He held up his hands, as if seeing them for the first time in centuries, and shrieked in terror.
His hand looked like ragged paper, torn and aged. But it was thin and insubstantial, a ragged leathery covering wrapped over a hollow spirit.
At that instant, the Wizard Sisel swung his staff again, catching the Death Lord with a backswing, and its dusky form exploded into a cloud of dust.
Confronted by the sunlight, stunned by the loss of their master, the wyrmlings shrieked in pain and horror as the warriors of Luciare plunged into their ranks.
“Hold them back!” Siyaddah’s father shouted at the guards, racing into the fray. “Hold them back.”
“Go, now!” Sisel cried to the people. “Run while you can!”
Suddenly, hundreds of soldiers began shouting, “Flee, this way! Run!”
Already there were crowds shoving at the wizard’s back, trying to make their way into the light. Siyaddah found herself being pushed forward. She longed to stay with her father, fight at his side, but she was like a leaf carried by a stream, out through the tunnel.
In a moment she found herself at the lip of a precipice. The sides of the hill fell away steeply below, but not so steeply that one could not climb down with care.
She did not go with care. Someone shoved her from behind, so that she went sliding and tumbling in the scree. She managed to grasp onto a small tree and pull herself upright.
People were falling behind her, rolling down the hill, like an avalanche of flesh. Siyaddah got her footing and darted from their path, angling down and away from the steady stream of humanity.