Chaosbound (46 page)

So the warlords sought out those who had developed their fighting skills.

The second thing that the warlords required was self-sacrifice, for as Aaath Ulber told them, “All who fight this day will die.” Oh, they might not die in battle, but they would be forced to leave behind families. Fathers who aged twenty years in a single season would leave their small tots behind, orphaning them.

For those who had raised their families, the sacrifice was less. So it was best if the volunteers had no loved ones at all.

But the truth was that the warlords were unwilling to give endowments to a hermit or a recluse, for they believed that a man who had no connection to others of his kind was imbalanced, and was likely to become a danger in the far future.

Last of all, the champion had to be strong of heart. He or she needed to be merciless, firm in conviction.

So the heroes were chosen—nine in all. The folk of Ox Port chose Wulfgaard as their champion, and as forcibles began to dribble into town, the old facilitator granted the boy endowments.

Of all the champions, only Wulfgaard was young and male. The rest were older men, past their prime. But they'd spent many years dueling with the ax and spear. Three of the four older men were masters of arms who had schooled younger men for war, and the rest of the champions were young women who had been trained as bodyguards, for all across the world, the blade women of Internook were considered to be among the finest of warriors and were often employed by the wealthy to watch over young maidens.

So the wyrmlings, who did not send women into battle, had not properly gauged the threat posed by the women of Internook.

By nightfall, more than one facilitator had “wandered” into town. Folks from nearby villages and cities also came, “to help harvest fish.”

So the facilitators went to work, granting endowments all night long, hoping that they could bestow enough attributes upon their champions to put a stop to the wyrmling threat.

Long the facilitators sang into the night, while forcibles flashed white hot and left serpents of light in glowing trails.

Aaath Ulber coerced endowments of brawn from two of his captured wyrmlings, and took sight from the third, while the old facilitator in town managed to file down nine forcibles of will, granting one to each champion.

By night, folks sneaked into town through the woods. Most came only to gawk. The great champion had come in fulfillment of the wyrmling prophecy—rousing the hopes and fears of the barbarians.

The mood in town was like a festival, with folks singing, celebrating, and dancing in the streets. The townsfolk were cooking fish over an open fire, and selling muffins and hot roasted hazelnuts.

Someone even brought out a pennant and ran it up a pole—the red flag of Internook with a white circle, representing the fabled Orb of Internook that Garth Highholm had carried to war against the toth.

Warlord Hrath forbade the playing of pipes or drums, for it was too dangerous. As Warlord Hrath complained, “Loud music will attract attention. We might as well blow our war horns and sound an alarm for our enemies!”

He could not stop the celebration completely. The joy in town was like a strong winter's tide, eroding the stones of despair on the beach, pulling them back in to deep waters.

Surely, Myrrima thought, this bodes ill.

Yet no wyrmlings came before dawn.

In the wee hours of the night, well before dawn, Aaath Ulber selected the weapons that he would take with him into the wyrmlings' lair. He carried his old war hammer, the one that High King Orden had bestowed upon him ages ago. Along with it he took various daggers and wyrmling war darts, and a bastard sword that was too small for him.

Then he went to his family to say good-bye.

“Stay here,” he said. “Keep well. I will have little Hilde remain in the village to protect you all from harm, but you'll need to be on the alert for wyrmlings too. Long and bloody will be this day, before I return, and when I do, I myself will see to the cities and towns hereabouts.”

“And if you don't make it?” Draken asked.

“You will know the moment of my death when my Dedicates arouse. If you see that happen, know that I loved you.”

At that, Sage's eyes welled up. “Don't I get a choice in this?” she asked.

“Sometimes life doesn't give us choices,” Aaath Ulber said, cupping a shoulder in each of his palms as he stared into her eyes. “The folks of Internook are looking for a hero, and apparently they think I'm the one to follow.

“So I must lead. And lest you forget, I had children on the shadow world. What has happened to them, I do not know, but I fear the worst—as I fear for all of our people.”

Aaath Ulber clapped Draken on the back. “Be strong,” he said. The young man had not been given a single endowment. But like his father, he was ready to fight wyrmlings with only the strength and talent he'd developed himself over the years.

Myrrima wondered how long it would take to clear out the wyrmling fortress. With twenty endowments of metabolism for each warrior, Aaath Ulber's champions should each be able to butcher a thousand wrymlings in an hour. But how many wyrmlings would be in that hole?

And what kind of man would Aaath Ulber be if he returned alive? She had seen Sir Borenson after he slew the Dedicates in King Sylvarresta's Keep. The deed had left him only half alive, wounded to the core of his soul.

She could not imagine that this would be any easier, though he argued that he could do it.

She peered hard at Aaath Ulber and asked, “Why is it that when you runelords want to save a life, you feel that you must take a life?”

Aaath Ulber said sadly, “There is no other way to free the Dedicates, as well you know.”

At five in the morning, with the clear stars still glimmering above, the champions headed east toward the wyrmling fortress.

Even as they left, the facilitators kept up their songs so that attributes might be vectored to Aaath Ulber and his warriors.

27

There is no door that can withstand Despair. It enters every heart, breaks down every wall
.

—From the Wyrmling Catechism

The wyrmling fortress was Aaath Ulber's goal. He let Wulfgaard lead them on a run through the starlight, racing a hundred miles in less than two hours. The roads along the coast twisted among hills dark with stunted pines.

A little inland, farms graced the land, longhouses built among the hills. The folk of Internook all had a few milk cows and goats to supply for their family's needs, and so there were trails aplenty.

The champions wore no armor, so they ran swiftly and easily through the night.

Aaath Ulber marveled at the power he felt. He was growing old. A couple of months ago if he'd thought of rising from his seat, he would have weighed his options to decide if he really needed to move. His age, his lack of strength, his lack of energy—all had been an impediment.

But with his new endowments, he found himself moving freely. With brawn and stamina, he had more than enough strength and energy to perform any task that he needed. With an endowment of will, there was no barrier to his desire. To think was to move.

To think of running was to run. So Wulfgaard led the champions through the hills, where they raced as quietly as possible, avoiding branches that might lie in their path. They bounded over brush piles and rocks like wild deer.

Years ago, Aaath Ulber had borne enough endowments so that he knew what to expect. When running at a hundred miles per hour, the body is often tricked. To him it seemed that he was merely sprinting.

But when he crested a small hill, his body would sometimes take flight, so that he would find himself leaping forty or fifty feet before he touched ground once again.

Often as they ran, they spotted deer and foxes along their trail, fleeing for cover. But they seemed to move slowly, as if in a dream, and Aaath Ulber could have easily brought them down.

No one saw them as they ran in the predawn. Wyrmlings were about, but as Wulfgaard had promised, they kept to the towns and villages and main roads, guarding the vast majority of the human population. They were not worried that men might be racing through fields and hills by night.

It was said that sometimes the wrymlings sent out roving patrols, but Aaath Ulber's champions met none. Perhaps the troops only moved in daylight now, when humans were most likely to be abroad.

Or perhaps Aaath Ulber was lucky.

When they neared the wyrmling fortress, Aaath Ulber paused and sent two champions to guard the front door outside the pinnacle, to keep the wyrmlings from escaping. By then, the sun was cresting the horizon.

Then the remaining six champions raced off through the countryside, seeking the wyrmlings' hidden entrance.

Aaath Ulber merely sprinted into the rugged hills where he suspected that he might find a wyrmling trail, some fifteen miles west of the fortress, and followed his nose.

It is said that a hound dog's sense of smell is sixty times more powerful than that of a man. Aaath Ulber had taken endowments of scent from three dogs, and like a wolf that can smell blood on the wind at five miles, he caught the odor of wyrmlings easily enough.

The scent carried him down out of the mountains, into a steep vale. By the time that Aaath Ulber reached it, the sun had risen, casting its silver light among the blue-shadowed hills.

The land here was almost too rugged for homesteads, but Aaath Ulber
found a couple of rustic shacks that had belonged to goat herders and woodsmen.

All of the homes were empty. The wyrmlings had swept through the valley, ridding it of anyone who might have witnessed their patrols marching along the river.

At one shack, a pile of human remains revealed the fate of the poor inhabitants. Human arm and leg bones were scattered about in the front yard, the last resting place of a young family, and tooth marks showed that the wyrmlings had gnawed them well.

The wyrmlings' scent led the champions to a shallow river, its bed graveled with rounded stones. Northern pines brooded along the shore, dark and stunted, growing so close together that a man could hardly walk through them.

The woods were soundless. No squirrels scampered up trees. No jays ratcheted. No stags bounded from the deep grass by the river and went leaping into the forest with their antlers rattling among branches. The only sound was the occasional clacking of a dragonfly's wing as it hunted along the reeds.

“We're getting close,” Aaath Ulber whispered to his champions. “The smell is growing strong.”

So the champions stopped and fed in silence, pulling rations from their packs—good white cheese with hard rinds, fresh bread, cooked fish that was still warm from the fires.

To an onlooker, it might have seemed as if they paused only for a minute there, but as Aaath Ulber's body measured it, it seemed close to half an hour that they rested.

He knew that his men would need their energy. The coming day would be long and bloody.

When he finished, the champions ran. They did not run on the land, but over the surface of the water. With so much speed, it was easy enough to do.