Son of Thunder - Murray J. D. Leeder [110]
A collective gasp came from the audience at this revelation.
"Shaquintar called it the Heart of Runlatha. It was to be one of several artifacts. The others were meant to move the city to some far-off place. Either he did not create them or they were lost in the death of magic. I do not know how to use this artifact. Our surviving arcanists must try to unlock its secrets. Perhaps when we find a scrap of ground to call our own, it will help us conceal it from the world."
A cry of joy arose from the crowd. The Bey had given them hope. Geildarr admired the Bey's ambitions, but wondered if he ever really thought that they would find a peaceful home somewhere in the North, hidden by illusion. Little did the Runlathans know that they would be scattered and ruined, falling into barbarity and tribalism. All memories, and very nearly all traces of their civilization, would vanish from them, and they would become the Uthgardt.
Naive, perhaps. Or maybe not-maybe the Bey knew real success was unlikely, but he kept up this fantasy for the sake of his followers. If nothing else, he would achieve a legacy. Some sixteen hundred years later, his name, or a form of it-whether Berun or Beorunna-would be remembered. He wondered if the name Geildarr, or even Fzoul or Sememmon, would last a fraction of that time.
"Now we must leave Runlatha behind," the Bey told his followers. "We must renounce all claims on it, so that our own hearts do not remain here in the ruins but travel with us on the Lowroad and beyond, to wherever the wind might carry us. Let the orcs pick its bones. Let the desert rise and swallow it up. It means nothing to us any longer. Cities fall, empires perish. It has happened before, and it will surely happen again. But we shall outlast the death of our empire."
An inexplicable anxiety rose up in Geildarr's breast, the way it sometimes did in his dreams. He reached out to grab the Heart of Runlatha away from the Bey of Runlatha, and as his hand made contact with the artifact, he woke.
There, trembling in his own opulent bed, the sheets damp with his sweat, he heard the sound of distant footsteps.
* * * * *
With slow, powerful steps, six behemoths walked toward Llorkh. Long serpentine necks bobbed with each footfall. Their steps were synchronized like those of an army marching in time, so that each heavy step sounded like the beat of a great war drum, sending reverberations across the plains. The walls of Llorkh trembled at their approach.
Clavel and the other watchmen atop the city walls stared in disbelief as the brown-skinned lizards came closer. They seemed larger than those Geildarr kept imprisoned in the Central Square. To shocked onlookers, they appeared like vast hills of scale, juggernauts of destruction.
The behemoths followed the wide road, the Dawn Pass Trail, continuing along the same path many thousands of merchant caravans had followed. They marched directly to the west gate of Llorkh: the largest gap in the walls but also the best-defended section. The Lord's Men manning the checkpoint outside wisely retreated within the city walls.
"Archers," Clavel croaked, trying to overcome his own astonishment. He barked to his fellows, "Archers! Fetch the archers!"
"How many archers?" a Lord's Man asked.
"As many as we have!" Clavel cried. "Quickly-wake the barracks! Wake the city!" In the Year of Wild Magic, Llorkh had withstood an attack from hundreds of foes, but could it survive an assault from only six?
* * * * *
Vell walked ahead of the other five, watching purple-clad soldiers, small as beetles, scramble on the city walls. Before long, several dozen archers amassed around the west gate. In all the chaos and confusion, they failed to notice a giant hawk sailing over the unguarded southern walls.
What was this like for the others?