The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,74
beast, ravaging life wherever I found it. He’d told me the truth about myself. My hunger grew less resistible with each beat of my heart.
Rajaat stepped sideways, revealing an open door, and the downward spiral beyond it. Measuring what remained of my sanity, I judged I could get to the ground, where Myron of Yoram awaited me, before I succumbed to madness.
“Your choice,” Rajaat reminded me as I strode past him.
My choice, indeed, and I descended slowly, testing the limits of madness at each step. While I stood in the Steeple of Crystals, what I knew of sorcery could have been written in bold script on a single vellum sheet. By the time my right heel struck the ground, I was a master. I’d learned the deadly dance of life and magic: My hunger sucked life from plant and animal alike. My hunger killed. I could—and would—learn to use my hunger to fuel mighty sorcery, but it would kill whether I learned or not.
Since the massacre at Deche, I’d become indifferent to killing. My conscience didn’t trouble me when I fixed my eyes on the cart where Myron of Yoram lay. I could kill trolls, all the trolls, because there was no other way. I could kill the Troll-Scorcher because I was there to replace him. I could kill anything—I might kill everything, if I wasn’t careful.
Become careful, Hamanu. Become very careful. Become whatever you want. It won’t matter. Your destiny is to use the gifts that I have given you.
Warning and promise together. I knew it at the time, though I thought the War-Bringer meant only that I was to cleanse the world of trolls. I thought—all the champions thought—that Rajaat meant to return Athas to us and to humanity when our wars were finished. We were wrong; I was wrong. It took me many years to understand that Rajaat hated humanity above all, because humanity embodied chaos and transformation. Humanity had engendered the Rebirth races. Rajaat’s champions would cleanse Athas of what he considered unnatural creatures—including humanity itself—before returning it to the one race he considered natural and pure: the halflings.
I have never fully understood why the War-Bringer needed champions. His power was so much greater than ours. He could have cleansed Athas of every race in a single afternoon. For thirteen ages, I’ve examined this question. I have no good answer. The answer must lie with the halflings themselves. Halflings destroyed their blue world, which Rajaat wished to recreate, and when it was gone—before they retreated into their tribal, forest lives—halflings created humanity. But which halflings?
Surely there was some dissent, some rebellion driven underground. Perhaps rebel halflings created Rajaat; perhaps he found them on his own. Whichever, Rajaat had halfling allies before he created the first champion, and he and his allies nurtured one another’s hatred of the green world Athas had become. Hatred made them all mad; madness made them devious, and because Rajaat was both mad and devious, he created champions to do the bloody work of cleansing Athas of the races he hated, while his own hands remained unsullied.
It isn’t a good explanation, but there can be no good explanation for why Rajaat did what he did.
For myself, when I stood outside the white tower, I, too, was mad—with hunger. When I laid my black-boned hands on Myron of Yoram’s quivering chest, I knew I would regret it, but when the Troll-Scorcher’s substance began to flow into me, I forgot everything else. It’s not a good explanation; it’s simply the truth.
Yoram’s smoldering eyes reappeared when I touched him, sun bright and malevolent in the lavender twilight. Mauled though he was, he was still a mighty sorcerer, and he recognized me as the renegade farmer’s son.
Mann. My name came to me on a netherworld wind of hot, sharp cinders. Kill me if you dare. I’ll curse you with my dying breath.
He strained against the thin silver chain that bound him, wrist, ankle, and neck, to the cart. Remembering my helpless day on the plains, bound to a mekillot stake while the eyes of fire blazed within me, I snapped the chains. A great death sigh went up from the plants and wildlife surrounding Rajaat’s pristine tower as the erstwhile Troll-Scorcher reaped power for his spell. But he tried too hard and took too long. I pressed my lips against his and sucked him hollow in a single inhaled breath.
Manu, he said again, my human name, and the entirety of his curse.