“Good,” Gaborn whispered. “The time is coming when others must learn this secret. But your goal is not to kill unless you must. Your challenge is to help Fallion bind the worlds,” the Earth King whispered. “Only then can they be healed. Deliver him to the Seals of Creation.”
“It shall be done,” Borenson said, and for a moment his worries for Fallion were alleviated. The Earth King would know if his own son was dead or alive.
The tree’s leaves suddenly rustled in a stray breeze, and for the moment the tree fell silent.
“Beware the subtle powers of Despair,” the Earth King whispered. “It will seek to break you.”
Aaath Ulber trembled. He recalled the sound that Owen Walkin’s carcass had made as it bounced over the cliff.
“I am already broken,” Aaath Ulber admitted. “I fear that I am already lost.”
The image of the Earth King was fading, retreating back into the tree, like an old man turning toward his bed for the night.
“The journey will be long,” the Earth King whispered. “You must find yourself along the way. A broken man is hard-pressed to heal others.”
The image of the Earth King dissipated altogether, and very last of the day’s sunlight seemed to dim all at once, as if the candle of heaven had been snuffed. The golden glow at their feet, the motes of green dust in the waning light, all were gone.
Sage reached down to the ground and grabbed a single acorn. “We should keep this,” she said reverently, “as a remembrance.”
Aaath Ulber placed a large hand on her shoulder and nodded his agreement, and together they turned and marched downhill in the dusk.
They had not gone a hundred feet when they heard a loud crack, followed by a crash. They turned to see the great oak split in half.
Aaath Ulber thought, Now Gaborn is gone forever.
When Sage and Aaath Ulber reached the outskirts of Fossil, it was past dusk. Smoke wafted above the chimneys, and Aaath Ulber could smell meat roasting on the fire.
I should go into town, he told himself. The time will come when I must win people over. I must figure out how to inspire them to follow me to war—or at the very least, give up their endowments.
I’m big and strange to look upon, but I’m not that strange.
So he sauntered to the town square in front of the inn, with Sage on his heels, and found a surprise: A rider had reached the village, a girl of seven or eight who rode upon the back of a huge white sea graak.
The townsfolk had gathered around it, and now they stood with torches. The graak shone an unearthly orange in the firelight, and stood regally, fanning its wings, the skin at its throat jiggling—a sign that it was hot after a long flight. It was a male, with a long white plume upon its forehead— a bony ridge that ended with a fold of skin like a fan. The blue staring eye of the Gwardeen was painted upon the plume.
The rider, a petite thing, had her hair tied back and wore the ocher tunic of those who manned the citadel in the Infernal Wastes.
Several men had gathered round the beast, hoping for news. Myrrima, Draken, and Rain were among the crowd, bearing cloth sacks filled with produce. Rain had a pair of goats tethered together. Little Sage raced up to her mother, excited to see what might be in the sacks.
Aaath Ulber stopped in the shadows of the inn and stood listening.
“The southern coasts are worse,” the girl was saying. “The ocean swallowed all of the land for six hundred miles, from what we can tell. The South is flooded.”
The sheriff of the town was a big man whose name Aaath Ulber could not recall. He had obviously been hoping that the disaster was some local affair.
“Do they know what caused this?” There would be no answer, of course. The appearance of fish and coral reefs on dry land was unprecedented.
The girl shook her head.
“Right,” the sheriff said. “We’re on our own then.” He turned to some of the townsfolk. “We’ll—” The sheriff caught sight of Aaath Ulber in the shadows.
“Here now,” he demanded, “who’s there? What’s your business?”
Aaath Ulber had been dreading this moment. He turned and glanced behind him, as if unsure that the sheriff was talking to him.
The sheriff didn’t recognize Aaath Ulber, of course, but Aaath Ulber had known him as a nodding acquaintance.
Aaath Ulber stepped out into the torchlight, and there were a few exclamations of shock from the men. Some of them reached for their knives almost by instinct, and even the graak reared up and flapped its wings, letting out a croak of warning. A black dog that had been wagging its tail and watching the crowd suddenly began to bark at Aaath Ulber, ranging back and forth, its tail between its legs.
“I came for a drink at the inn,” Aaath Ulber said, “and to buy goods— if it pleases you.” None of the men spoke for a moment, so he added “What’s the matter—you’ve never seen a giant before?”
The sheriff eyed Aaath Ulber suspiciously. Always in the past he had been a jolly fellow, eager to please. He said coldly, “I decide whom we will trade with in this town—or not. Do you have a name?”
Aaath Ulber might have said that he was Sir Borenson, but he did not want to confuse the man. “Aaath Ulber,” he answered, “a poor giant, traveling from afar. Do not mistrust my appearance, for though I am the size of a great boar I am as gentle as a burrow bear.”
Aaath Ulber smiled at his own description, no doubt baring his oversized canines.
On any other evening, that answer might have served as an invitation to tell a tale or two, but the sheriff was in no mood for tales. He studied Aaath Ulber, taking in the curious hornlike growth on his temples; the bone spurs on his wrists; and the unearthly gray metal of his armor. He demanded, “Where do you hail from?”
Aaath Ulber dared not lie; yet the truth was stranger than any tale he could have devised. A half-truth served better. “Near Mystwraith Mountain on the far borders of Indhopal is the home of my ancestors.”
“I have never heard of it,” the sheriff said. Of course, Aaath Ulber knew that the folk here in Landesfallen had little contact with strangers. Indhopal was on the far side of the world; he doubted that anyone in this town had ever set foot there. The world was full of wonders, and so he thought to add one more.
“Our people are few in number now, fewer than the frowth, fewer than the arr. Like the hill giants of Toom, our numbers are dwindling. My people are called the Bawlin. In ancient times we bowed to the kings of Mystarria, and the most famous of our number served as a guard in the court of King Orden. I myself fought reavers under the banner of the Earth King, and saw the fall of Raj Ahten.”
Aaath Ulber of course could tell stories of the Great War all day; they’d even be true.
There were approving nods from some men, and one chimed in, “I’ve heard of them giants.”
The sheriff gave Aaath Ulber a stone-cold look for a long moment, as if weighing some argument in his mind, then said softly, dangerously, “Seize him!”
“What?” Aaath Ulber roared. “On what charge?”
“Suspicion,” the sheriff said. “There are no songs of a giant like you fighting beside the Earth King, and if you had done so, there would have been a song. Hence, I know you to be a liar.”
Aaath Ulber studied the man. The sheriff was looking for any foolish excuse to jail him—that much was evident.
Men fear power, and Aaath Ulber’s size and bearing marked him as being more powerful than others.
A couple of men strode forward, armed with nothing more than torches and a pitchfork. One of the townsfolk reached for his knife.
Myrrima stepped in front of him, blocking their path. She demanded, “Are there any songs of Myrrima and her bow, who slew the Darkling Glory at Castle Sylvarresta?”
The men drew to a halt. They all knew her name even if they did not know her in person. Some whispered, “It’s Myrrima!”