That sounds right, Aaath Ulber thought. It would accomplish two things: the wyrmlings could round up those most likely to revolt while ensuring themselves a stock of potential Dedicates.
But harvesting so many endowments would require forcibles. Did the wyrmlings have that much blood metal?
Aaath Ulber considered. They might be mining it here in the North, but it seemed more likely that they would rely on shipments coming in from Rugassa.
The thought sent chills through him. “If we could capture their forcibles . . .”
Suddenly, the worry over what to do with wyrmling Dedicates was shoved to the back of Aaath Ulber’s mind. There were more important tasks at hand.
Aaath Ulber pointed at the map. “I came to save human lives, not take them. There is only one way I can see to save the Dedicates. I’ll have to go down and kill their guards, then work my way up the tunnels, slaughtering wyrmlings as I go.”
Draken considered the plan. That would leave twenty thousand wrymlings on the surface, wyrmlings that still had endowments, wyrmlings that would need strong men to fight them.
“We’ll need several champions,” Aaath Ulber said. It would be hard on these people to grant more endowments, but they would have to make the sacrifice. They’d have to scour the villages and farms nearby to find the needed Dedicates. “I’ll want good men with a hundred endowments each to clear out the wyrmlings runelords on the surface. I think that they’ll need twenty endowments of metabolism at the least. I’ll also need men with me down inside—to guard the wyrmlings’ hoard of forcibles, to guard the Dedicates, and to help me keep any wyrmlings from escaping. . . .”
Draken dared hope that he might be one of those who were granted endowments. He’d been in training with his father for weeks, practicing to kill wyrmlings. From the time that he was a child, Draken’s father had prepared him for this.
Warlord Hrath sat frowning, considering the plan. “This is dangerous,” he muttered. “If the wyrmlings on the surface get wind of what you’re doing . . .”
“They would wipe out entire cities,” Aaath Ulber declared. “They will wipe out cities, and there is little that we can do to stop them. But if the wyrmlings have as many forcibles as I suspect, we don’t have time to come up with a better plan. With every moment that we hesitate, they get stronger.”
Hrath shook his gray head. “A good plan is one that has a high chance of success—”
He was correct, of course. A new thought struck Aaath Ulber.
“If my guess is right,” Aaath Ulber said, “the strongest wyrmlings are down underground right now, giving in to their breeding frenzy. The wyrmlings have no love in them, but at this time of year a wyrmling bull becomes like a stag in rut. Its neck swells, its eyes become bloodshot, and its mind goes cloudy. The bulls fight each other for the right to mate with a woman, even if there are a hundred other sows waiting for the honor.
“With them in such a state, I should be able to slaughter their greatest lords wholesale. That means that the ones on the surface, for the most part, will be the weakest of their men, culls.”
Warlord Hrath shook his head. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then maybe we’ll all die,” Aaath Ulber said, trying to make light of the situation. “But then, we’re all bound to die someday.”
He raised his mug of ale in salute and laughed heartily. The barbarians of Internook were a violent people, given to war. Hrath raised his own mug, and Wulfgaard did the same, and men all around gave a cheer.
“So,” Hrath asked, “you hope to kill all of the wyrmlings down in that hole?” The old warlord could not keep the edge of doubt from his voice. For one man to kill so many, tens of thousands, did not seem possible. Even a powerful runelord can make mistakes. Even Raj Ahten himself was bested by lesser men.
“I do,” Aaath Ulber confessed. The giant rose to his feet and paced a bit, deep in thought.
Myrrima peered up at him, her sharp eyes piercing. “Even their children?”
“Every lion grows from a cub,” Aaath Ulber said. “I cannot leave any alive.”
“Are wyrmlings lions?” Myrrima asked. “You told me once that they may have come from human stock—just like you, just like me.”
“They have no love, no sense of honor.”
“Will you slaughter the babes in their cradles?” Myrrima asked. Gorge rose in Draken’s throat at the thought. “Or will you bash in the heads of their toddlers? You want to protect us, and that is good,” Myrrima urged. “But where does protection end and vengeance begin? Where does honor meet dishonor?”
Aaath Ulber stood deep in thought. His face was a mask of revulsion.
He is a ship that has lost its mooring, Draken told himself.
Aaath Ulber looked to Warlord Hrath for counsel. The warlord shrugged.
“Leave the babes and the children,” Hrath advised, “any child smaller than a grown man. Perhaps some folks of Internook can take care of the babes. If any of the older children need to die, we’ll take care of it.”
Aaath Ulber sighed. “All right, I will spare the children that I can—and gladly. But I’d hoped not to do all of the killing with blade work. The wyrmlings often have the makings of smoke or water traps in their warrens. I’d hoped to use their own infernal devices against them.”
“Blade work will be the only way,” Hrath agreed.
Wulfgaard said evenly, “I want to be the one to guard our people in the underworld! My betrothed will be among the Dedicates.”
Aaath Ulber whirled. “If our warriors get killed down there, you understand that you can’t just let the Dedicates live. Our fallback plan must be to kill them all, to strip the wrymlings of their advantage. Could you do that?”
Wulfgaard gulped, hung his head. “I could kill them all but one,” he protested.
Aaath Ulber peered hard at him and whispered, “That’s not good enough.”
Draken pondered. Could I do it?
Cold reason suggested that he should be able to.
I wish these people no harm, he told himself, but neither do I know them. I would care for no one down there, and I would spare no one. A man who gives an endowment to my enemy is my enemy, and his life is forfeit. Every man, woman, and child down there knows that.
“Perhaps I should be the one guarding the Dedicates,” Draken suggested.
The giant Aaath Ulber stared hard at Draken, his brow furrowed in thought.
“The boy has a good point,” Warlord Hrath put in. “It would be better if it was not one of our people down there, lest pity stay their hands.”
“Draken,” Rain argued, “you can’t do this. You can’t leave me behind. You have promises to keep.”
She was right, of course. He too was betrothed, and he could not just forsake Rain. He didn’t dare take the endowments of metabolism needed.
“I’ll go,” Wulfgaard said. “It’s not your battle. I’ll go, even if it means that I must kill my beloved.”
The wyrmling patrol reached Ox Port at eleven that morning.
They were announced by the town guard, of course. A young man pitching hay from a loft on the hill began to sing:
“Mother take your washing off the line,
For a stranger comes to town.
And much will vanish for all time,
When a stranger comes to town.
Beware the wanton look, the shifting eye,
The hungry stares of the passersby.
So, Father, bring your children near,
If a stranger comes to town.
For many are hurt that we hold dear,
When a stranger comes to town.”
It was the signal that wyrmlings had arrived, and Rain’s heart began to hammer.
But Aaath Ulber took the news in stride. He glanced up toward the loft, and the young workman jutted his chin to the west, dropped his hand by his side, and held down three fingers.
“Looks like it’s time to earn my keep,” Aaath Ulber said, as he rose from his seat on the s
teps of the pub. He dusted off his pants and told Warlord Hrath, “I’ll need some rope.”
“You’re going to try to take them alive?” Hrath’s disbelief showed in his eyes.
Aaath Ulber grabbed a rock from the ground. It wasn’t large, perhaps only a pound, but his intent was obvious. “Every time I kill one of those wyrmlings, it frees several Dedicates—and sends them to their deaths. There are better ways to handle our enemies.”
He’d hardly finished speaking when the wyrmlings came round a bend, striding down the cobbled road in full war gear, bone-white armor and helms. Their heads swiveled back and forth as they marched through town. They were obviously searching for the wyrmling guards who were supposed to be watching the village.
Aaath Ulber walked toward them casually, head bowed. Few folks were on the street. They were all down in the bay, catching fish, cleaning them, salting them, preparing them to smoke.
So it was that Aaath Ulber sauntered up to the three. They bridled when they saw him, recognizing him for what he was, and one wyrmling looked as if he might turn and run for help.
Aaath Ulber merely stepped aside so that they could pass. The wyrmlings seemed confused by his actions. They halted, not daring to turn their backs upon him. One glanced ahead, as if fearing that more men of Caer Luciare might bar the way, when Aaath Ulber attacked.
He leapt in a blur, fists raining blows upon his opponents, pummeling them with no weapon greater than a stone.
Aaath Ulber didn’t have his full complement of endowments yet. He wanted twenty of metabolism, but the town had only seven forcibles left. The others had all been used up, and he wasn’t likely to get more soon.
But his endowments proved sufficient. Within two seconds he knocked all three wyrmlings down. One had a split helm, another gushed blood from his eye.
Aaath Ulber relieved the monsters of their weapons. One of them kept struggling to get up, and Aaath Ulber kicked him hard enough to break a few ribs, and put him back down.
It took nearly half a minute for Wulfgaard to fetch some rope from the pub. Then the men bound the wrymlings and a dozen volunteers helped drag them back to the arena, where Aaath Ulber locked them in cages that had been made to hold bears.
“Shall we kill them?” Warlord Hrath demanded.
Aaath Ulber merely smiled. “Kill them? I’m going to take endowments from them. The brawn of three wyrmlings is not easy to come by.”
25
WATER’S WARRIOR
There are paths that lead to happiness, but few people tread them. Instead, they hope to find shortcuts, or imagine that happiness can be found wherever they decide to squat. But true happiness comes when we attain worthwhile desires, not when we merely surrender desire.
—Myrrima
A mile upriver from Ox Port, Myrrima climbed into a clear freshet and washed the weapons for the folks of the city. It was early morning still, just past dawn. She’d slept little during the night, yet somehow she felt renewed. The touch of water often lent her strength.
Birds were in the woods around her, flycatchers dipping to catch linnets that erupted like droplets of amber from a fallen alder across the river, and nuthatches and songbirds that chattered in mountain hawthorns.
The rune that she drew upon each club and blade was not one that had a name. She’d dreamt it once, long ago, in a nightmare where she battled a wight.
The dream had come on the heels of her own encounter with such a monster, an encounter that nearly left her dead.
The symbol that she drew was a rune for severing ties—ties to family, ties to friends, ties to the flesh, ties to the world.
Myrrima had never shown it to others. Things of such weight, she felt, were sacred. They came from the Power that she served, and were given only to her, to help her fulfill her purpose.
I am Water’s Warrior, she told herself as she blessed the weapons, and I have been called to war.
She wondered what her part should be in the coming battles. Her own weapon of choice had been the yew bow, a good length of strong heartwood, mottled red and white, with a bit of cat gut for a string.
For her arrow, she preferred a medium-sized shaft, one thin enough to get good distance but light enough to travel far. If she wasn’t fighting reavers, she’d want one with an iron tip that flared wide, a broad head that could sever arteries and slice through flesh.
She had not practiced her bow skills in weeks, not since the flood had taken her home. Indeed, she’d more or less given up on archery practice over the years.
She wondered now if she had done wrong.
Water had called her to war, but what part was she to play?
Perhaps all that I need to do is what I am doing now, she thought—blessing these weapons so that others may fight.
She’d dreamt that she had left war behind. She was at a point in life where her children were nearly out of the home. She’d hoped to plant herself in her little valley back in Sweetgrass and let the children grow around her, building their own cottages on the borders of her farm. She’d looked forward to playing with her grandbabies and passing down the lore of child-rearing to her children and their spouses.
But my life is at an end, she thought.
Borenson was gone, gone as completely as if he were dead. The last vestiges of him were hidden somewhere inside the giant Aaath Ulber, and by the end of the day, Aaath Ulber would take his death in endowments.
Twenty endowments of metabolism he required. With so many, he would live his remaining years in a flash. Two or three years he might survive, as measured by the seasons.
But during that time, he himself would move twenty times the pace of a normal man. Each day would seem stretched to him.
He’s gone beyond my reach, she thought. What once remained of my husband has left me forever, traveling not across the far reaches of the land, but across time, where I cannot follow.
Such thoughts filled her mind as Myrrima washed each axe and spear, dagger and sword, and then set them in the sun to dry, with the rune side up.
The sun needed to dry the weapons. The runes would be spoiled if wiped with a human hand.
When she finished, she stood with the sunlight at her back, and peered down at the mass of blades. Hundreds of them lay spread out upon the ground, all of the weapons in the village of Ox Port.
Among them were many fine bows, and whole quivers full of arrows.
Is this all that Water wants of me? Myrrima wondered. Or dare I go to war?
Already, Myrrima’s magic had saved them twice on this journey. She wanted to go into the wyrmling lair, to fight by Aaath Ulber’s side.
Yet she knew that she didn’t have the physical strength or speed for such an ordeal.
A horse whickered, and she glanced up to the road. A pair of young men sat in a wagon, waiting for her to finish. They looked to be fifteen or sixteen, about Draken’s age. Bright, young, full of hope. Their future stretched out before them.
She shouted up to the boys, “Almost done. When these weapons are dry, we’ll be ready to load. When you pass them out, tell the owners not to wipe the blades before they go into battle—and not to wipe blood off of them in the thick of it.”
The young men nodded, and Myrrima went to a plain bow that looked to be fit for her size. She picked up an arrow from the ground, the gray goose feathers of its fletching still wet. She smoothed the fletching, nocked the arrow to the string, drew the bow to the full, and took aim at a knot on the tree.
The bow felt too strong for her. She could not aim it easily.
Or perhaps I am just too weak, Myrrima thought. A few days of practice, and my arm would grow used to it.
She let the arrow fly, and missed her knot by only an inch.
Myrrima looked up at the young men and thought of Sage, only fourteen years old.
If Myrrima was to go with Aaath Ulber that would mean she would leave Sage behind, a child abandoned by both of her parents. There was Draken and Rain, too, and Myrrima hoped to see Talon an
d Fallion, Jaz and Rhianna.
I am a mother, she realized. That is not a station that I dare abandon. I made a pact with my children before they were ever conceived, that I would be their champion, their bastion and hope. I promised to be their guide and companion.
Aaath Ulber was leaving, forging ahead down a path from which no man could ever return, and Myrrima decided to let him go.
He had not counseled with her or the children before taking his attributes. He had not explained his reasoning to her.
Perhaps he plans to say good-bye before he goes into the wyrmling fortress, Myrrima thought. He’d need to say his farewells to Draken and Sage and Rain.
Time to let him go forever, she thought, while tears streamed down her cheeks and she added her water to the ground.
26
A GATHERING OF HEROES
Heroes are not found in dreams and legends, but can be discovered all around us, walking down the very lane that you live upon. Look at the old man who labors mightily to gather firewood to warm his wife on a cold winter night, or the young woman who faces death to bring a child into the world. Heroism is not an anomaly, but the normal state of mankind.
—Gaborn Val Orden
The day seemed longer than normal to Draken. Young men went out in the morning, and by noon none had returned.
Then folks began to trickle into Ox Port. One old farmer carried a load of horse manure on a cart drawn by a reindeer, and when he gained the inn, he reached into the muck and brought out thirteen forcibles.
Not long afterward, other gifts began to arrive. A young woman came into town riding a donkey, her hooded green robe pulled low, looking tired and haggard. She had no sooner reached the inn than she threw off her robe and leapt from the donkey’s back, vaulting high in the air.
She was a runelord who had taken endowments in secret, of course, come from some nearby city.
Other heroes from surrounding villages and cities began pouring in that evening.
None of them looked like the kind of men that Draken had expected. Each nearby town sent someone, but the warlords of Internook required only three things from their champions: First, the champions needed to be the most skilled warrior in his or her village. Among the runelords, great strength was not required, for with a single endowment of brawn a man wanting for strength could be made strong. Similarly, a man who lacked for dexterity could take endowments of grace, and those who were slow might have metabolism bestowed upon them.
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