“Fallion and Jaz!” Draken exulted, and Aaath Ulber’s heart pounded with newfound hope. He did not want to leap to conclusions, but who else could it be?
Myrrima muttered, “The wyrmlings must have learned that Fallion bound the worlds. Let us hope that their awe of him keeps him alive.”
Fifty days in a wyrmling dungeon, Aaath Ulber thought. Few could survive so long. The wyrmlings were not gentle. But then, few men were as durable as Fallion Orden.
Aaath Ulber looked to Angdar. “What did Warlord Bairn answer when my daughter made her request?”
“He asked for the location of the mountain of blood metal. She told him, and then he ordered his archers to open fire upon her. She flew off, I hear, unscathed.”
It was all that Aaath Ulber could do to keep from going into a berserker’s rage. “Bairn is a fool.”
“Was a fool,” Warlord Hrath corrected. “No sooner had the woman departed than he began to mount an expedition into the wilds above Ravenspell, seeking the mountain!”
“Above Ravenspell?” Aaath Ulber asked, and a fey smile crossed his face. Smart girl. His daughter must not have trusted this Warlord Bairn. She’s sent him on a chase—right into the enemy’s camp. “Well, I don’t suppose I’ll need to go seeking vengeance upon him.”
“No one knows what happened next,” Warlord Hrath said, “but Bairn’s folly cost him dear. He and his men rode out hard, and none were ever seen again.
“But it is feared that he stirred up a hornets’ nest. Darkling Glories began to fill the skies, winging above the castles in Mystarria, betraying our troops’ positions to the wyrmling hordes. The wyrmlings attacked the Courts of Tide—but they used reavers as sappers, to knock down the castle walls.
“The wyrmling runelords decimated the land in less than a week.”
“Our folks fled the southlands, and as they did, darkness filled the skies—great swirling clouds the color of greasy smoke, whirling in a maelstrom.
“It hovers there still, so that all of Mystarria is veiled in eternal night. The Darkling Glories fly in and out of it, and the only illumination comes from the brief flashes of lightning that rip through the sky.
“The heavens grumble and moan,” Hrath said solemnly, “and the earth is troubled. That is why I have wondered, why we have all wondered . . . against such powers, what mortal man could prevail? Why would the wyrmlings fear you?”
Aaath Ulber suspected that he knew precisely why. It wasn’t his prowess in battle, it was something that he’d learned long ago, a bit of knowledge that he held dear—and had never told anyone.
“At the arena,” Aaath Ulber said, “there was a wyrmling lord. He boasted that he could not be killed, for he was under the protection of an Earth King. Have you heard rumors of this before?”
Hrath leaned away from the table, his eyes wide with surprise. “An Earth King? A wyrmling Earth King? Are you sure? That would be a fell thing indeed!”
“That can’t be true,” Myrrima cut in. “The Earth Spirit would not grant its power to such a beast!”
“Are you certain?” Aaath Ulber asked. “The Earth Spirit cares equally for all of its creatures, the hawk as well as the mouse, the serpent as well as the dove. Perhaps the wyrmlings are in danger of going extinct soon. If I had my way, I’d make them extinct!”
Aaath Ulber thought furiously. It would make sense. If mankind posed enough danger to the wyrmlings, the Earth Spirit might protect them.
But Aaath Ulber couldn’t imagine how he could pose such a threat to the wyrmlings . . . except. His mind went back to that bit of hidden knowledge. It was time to reveal the secret he had kept for over a decade.
He leaned forward. “There is something that I must tell you: Six months before he passed, the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden came to see me one last time. He was old and frail, and appeared outside my door in broad daylight one morning. The guards at the castle gate swear that he did not enter, that he simply materialized from the soil. . . .”
“I doubt that he materialized,” Myrrima said. “An Earth Warden can be hard to see, if he does not want to be noticed.”
“In any event,” Aaath Ulber said, “he stayed for two days, and when we were alone, he told me something that he wished to be kept secret until the time was right for it to be published abroad.
“He said that there was a way for a killer to circumvent his powers. He said that he had learned of instances where his chosen had died—by murder. He would sense their impending doom, sometimes weeks in advance, but as it drew near, he could not avert the event.
“He said that there was a secret order of men who were doing this to gain power, and he feared what it might lead to. . . .”
“How could this be?” Warlord Hrath said. “The Earth King’s power to preserve was legendary.”
“Slow poison,” Aaath Ulber answered. “When a man takes it, his death may be secured, but it might not happen for days or even months after the poison is administered. Thus, Gaborn would sense impending doom hours or weeks away, and as the threat grew, he would hope that the Earth Spirit would tell him how to avert it. But by the time that he realized that there could be no rescue, the killer was long gone.”
“So,” Warlord Hrath asked, “you’re suggesting that we poison the wyrmlings.”
Aaath Ulber sat, pondering. That was exactly what had happened earlier in the night. The lich lord had incapacitated one of the Earth’s chosen, it seemed. But it was the young Wulfgaard who had struck the killing blow minutes later.
If indeed the monster had been under the protection of an Earth King, then it had done the creature little good.
Incapacitate first, then kill at leisure.
“Yes,” Aaath Ulber agreed, “poison would be one way to go about it. . . .”
Aaath Ulber peered around the room. The villagers were preparing to flee, but he realized that the spectacle would only attract more wrymlings.
“Tell your people to stay in their houses,” Aaath Ulber warned Warlord Hrath. “As well as we can, we must maintain the illusion that it is business as usual here. Give me endowments, and I can protect the village.”
“But . . .” Hrath objected. “What if the wyrmlings find out what we’ve done and attack? We’ll have no way to protect your Dedicates.”
“We’ll hide them in attics and cellars as best we can.”
“And if the wyrmlings attack in force? We have no castle walls here to repel them. We have little in the way of troops.”
“Just as a runelord who is mighty with endowments needs little in the way of armor, I will protect you. My shield will be your castle wall, and I will fight your battles.”
Aaath Ulber still had blood on his hands and garments when he took his endowments that night. Rain watched as the warlords of Internook built a vast bonfire, and its ruddy light stained the hairs of the giant’s head a deeper shade of red and accentuated the blood splatter upon his clothes. In the firelight the nubs of horns stood out upon his brow. As Aaath Ulber waited in the village street, a keg of ale for his throne, an old man brought forcibles from some hiding spot in a nearby village.
He’d wrapped them in oilskin and hidden them in a keg of cider vinegar. Now the skins stank, even from Rain’s vantage point forty feet away.
“Those wyrmlings don’t have a taste for vinegar,” the old man explained. “Hide them in a keg of ale, and you’re asking for trouble. But put them in vinegar, and a wyrmling will never bother them.”
He laid out the forcibles—sixty of them, a surprisingly large number.
So the ceremony began. Rain had never seen an endowment ceremony before. Her father had been a lord, a wealthy man, but even in his days the mines of Kartish had been failing, so she’d never seen a forcible.
So she watched in fascination as the ceremony took form. A huge crowd had gathered at her back, perhaps some five thousand strong, and folks peered eagerly. Some folks had come out of mere curiosity. Others had come to give attributes. All of them seemed to be proddi
ng and pushing at Rain’s back, trying to get a better view.
The evening was taking on a spectacle, as if it were a festival day and someone had brought fireworks from Indhopal.
Now the old man took out his forcibles and inspected each by firelight. The forcibles were rods, much in shape and size like a small spike, a little thicker than the heaviest wire and about the length of a man’s hand. They were made of blood metal, which was darker red than rusted iron, and which tasted like dried blood to the tongue.
At the tip of the forcible was a rune, a mystic shape that controlled which attribute might be taken from a Dedicate and transferred to a lord. The rune was about the size of a man’s thumbnail, and though the shape of the rune did not mimic anything seen in life, the shape alone had an aura of power about it, a sense of rightness to it, that defied understanding.
Each forcible was made from pure blood metal, which was so soft to the touch that a chance scrape with a fingernail could dent it. Thus, the runes at the head were easily damaged during transportation, and the wizard who used them had to make sure that the forcible was pristine and perfect, lest the endowment ceremony go awry.
So the old man studied the rune at the tip of each forcible, and sometimes he would take a file and pry a little here, or file a little there.
As he worked, Aaath Ulber got up and spoke, hoping to gain the hearts and approbation of the people.
“I am no common man,” he called out to the crowd. “You can see that by my appearance. But what you cannot see is that I am two men, two who were united into one when the worlds were bound.”
At that, the crowed oohed and aahed.
“One of those two men you may have heard of, for I was the bodyguard of the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden in his youth. I was Sir Borenson, and fought at the Earth King’s right hand when the reavers marched on Carris. I guarded his back when Raj Ahten sent his assassins against our king when he was only a lad, just as I guarded his son, Fallion Orden, and kept him safe in Landesfallen for these past ten years.
“Foul deeds I have done in the service of old King Orden, deeds that bloodied my hands and soiled my conscience. You have heard that I slew Raj Ahten’s Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta. More than two thousand men, women, and children I killed—in order to save my king, and our world.
“I did not shirk from bloodshed. I did not offer sympathy or condolences to those I murdered. It was a deed that shamed me, but it was a deed that I could not turn away from.
“I killed men that I had dined with and hunted with, men that I loved as if they were my own brothers. . . .”
Rain wondered at that. It was not the kind of thing that she would have bragged about. She feared Aaath Ulber, feared his lack of restraint, his raw brutality.
And here this crowd was, urging him on, empowering him.
“But that is only half the tale,” Aaath Ulber said, “for as I told you, I am two men bound into one.
“Aaath Ulber was my title on the shadow world that you saw fall from the heavens, a title that means Great Berserker. I was the foremost warrior among the men of my world, and more than two hundred wyrmlings have fallen beneath my ax and spear.
“Seven times did I plunge myself into the depths of wyrmling fortresses, and once when no one else survived, I made it out alone.
“I do not tell you this to boast,” Aaath Ulber continued, “I tell you this so that you will know: I plan to kill our common enemy. I will show no compassion, spare no child.
“I am two men in one shell. I have trained for two lifetimes, and gained skills that neither world had ever seen.
“I am stronger now than either man was alone—faster, stronger, better prepared.
“The wyrmlings fear me because I am the most dangerous man alive. I speak their language. I know their ways. I have breached their fortresses time and time again. The wyrmlings shall have nothing from me—nothing from us—but an ignoble death!
“This I pledge you: Those who grant endowments to me this day will strike a blow against the wyrmlings. I shall not faint, nor shall I retreat. Death to all wyrmlings!”
At that the folks of Ox Port cheered and raised their weapons, shouting war cries. Some women wept openly, while alewives poured mug after mug, and the men raised them in toast.
What better way to gain endowments, Rain thought, than to take them from drunken barbarians.
As Aaath Ulber finished, the old man held up a completed forcible and called out its name. “Brawn? Who will grant brawn to our champion?”
“Does he need any more brawn?” some warrior shouted, and many men guffawed.
“I am strong,” Aaath Ulber agreed, “but I go to face wyrmling runelords that are stronger still. A hundred endowments of brawn I need, no less! And I need them this night—for I must cleanse this island of our wyrmling foes!”
“Hurrah!” the men cheered, and a huge barbarian strode forward, eager to be the first.
The old man cheered and shouted, “Bless you! Bless you. May the Bright Ones protect you, and the Glories guard your back!” He clapped the barbarian on the shoulder and the ceremony began.
It was evident that the old man was not well practiced in the taking of endowments. His hands trembled as he began to sing, so that the rod shook. In some distant day, he might have been a facilitator to some warlord, a mage who specialized in taking endowments. But forcibles had become so rare in the past few years. Now he closed his eyes and began to sing a wordless song that felt strained and uncomely.
It was not words really, but repeated sounds—groans and humming, interspersed with sharp harking calls. There was music in his song, but it felt wild and unrestrained, like a driving wind as it coils through mountain valleys, blowing this way one moment, another way the next.
Rain grew lost in the song, mesmerized, until soon the chanting and humming seemed to be part of her, something flowing in her blood.
Just as she lost herself, she wakened to the smell of burning flesh. The old facilitator had taken the forcible and pressed it to the barbarian’s bared chest, and during the course of the song the metal had turned white-hot.
Hair scalded and flesh burned. The barbarian’s face was hard and stony, his eyes unfocused. He knelt, staring at Aaath Ulber while the facilitator branded him with the searing iron. Sweat streamed down the Dedicate’s brow, and his jaw quivered from pain, but he did not let out a sound.
Then the facilitator danced away, held up the hot branding iron. As he did, the forcible left a white trail in the darkness, a worm of pale white light that hung in the air as solidly as if it were carved from wood.
The children cried out “Ah!” and marveled.
The facilitator waved his forcible in the air, creating knots of white light, like a giant rope. One end of the rope was anchored to the barbarian’s chest, while the other end blazed at the tip of the forcible. The facilitator studied the light trail, gazing at it from various angles, and at last took the rod to Aaath Ulber.
The giant pulled open his own vest, revealing a chest that was much scarred—both from old battle wounds and from the kiss of the forcible.
It is said that receiving an endowment, any endowment, grants the lord who takes it immense pleasure, and now Aaath Ulber’s eyes fluttered back in his head, as if he would faint from ecstasy.
The facilitator plunged the metal rod into Aaath Ulber’s chest, and in an instant the trail of white light that connected the two broke. The worm of light shot out of the barbarian’s chest like a bolt, and with a hissing sound it rushed toward Aaath Ulber. It struck the forcible, which turned to dust and disappeared, and for an instant the light seemed to well up in Aaath Ulber’s chest, threatening to escape. A white pucker arose on his skin in the shape of a rune, and suddenly the air filled with the acrid odor of his singed hair and the pleasant scent of cooked skin, so much like the scent of pork roasting upon a spit.
His head lolled, and he nearly swooned.
But the fate of he who grants an endowment is not so sur
e. The giving of an attribute causes such agony that it cannot be described. Women claim that the pain of childbirth pales in comparison, and almost always the Dedicate who grants an endowment will wail in pain, sometimes sobbing for hours afterward.
But this big barbarian did not cry out. He did not even whimper. He merely sat stoically, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow, until at last he fainted from the effort of staying upright.
His strength had left him completely.
In a tense moment, everyone watched the barbarian to see if he still breathed. Too often, a man who gave his strength gave more than his strength: he gave his life. For when the strength left him, his heart might be too weak to beat, or his lungs might cease to draw breath.
But the barbarian lay on the ground, breathing evenly, and even managed to raise his arms, as if to crawl. He fell to his belly and chuckled, “I’m as weak as a babe!”
At that there was a shout of celebration, for if he could talk, then he would survive.
Thus the endowment ceremony began, with those who offered greater endowments leading the way. The greater endowments included brawn, grace, wit, and stamina, and granting them was dangerous business. A man who gave too much stamina was prone to catch every little fever that swept through a village. Those who gave up grace often cramped up on themselves; their muscles, unable to loosen, would either cause them to strangle for lack of air or to starve. Even those who gave wit might pass away, for in the first few moments after granting the endowment, a man’s heart might forget how to beat.
Thus, courageous men and women came to offer up endowments, and with each successful transfer the celebration deepened, for it was proved that the old man knew how to transfer attributes without killing his Dedicates.
Rain noticed a young woman at the edge of the firelight thrown from a torch, spreading salve upon one of the injured warriors who had helped fight at the arena. Rain went and borrowed some salve from her, a balm that smelled rich from herbs, and took it to Draken.
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