Zul-torac cried out in pain as his desiccated corpse exploded in a cloud of dust.
Suddenly the vision cleared, and Zul-torac stood before the chaos oracle, filled with a terror so visceral that he’d never felt the like.
Worries preyed upon Zul-torac’s mind. Lord Despair had seized control of the world; now he was using it as a platform from which to conquer the heavens. Despair’s powers made him invincible. He could use his Earth Powers to “choose” his warriors, warning them how to save themselves in the battles to come.
But Lord Despair could not use his marvelous gift to save a lich. Zul-torac’s body was too wasted, too far gone toward death.
Zul-torac’s mind raced. There was no one to save him, no champion to protect him.
But I have wyrmling warriors by the thousands, Zul-torac thought, and blood metal aplenty.
Despair had ordered Zul-torac to send some blood metal to that evil wight Crull-maldor. Zul-torac had hesitated, not wanting to strengthen his old enemy. Even now he could not bring himself to send her the required forcibles.
The rest of the wyrmlings were growing in power, moving toward the Ascension.
But perhaps it is time, he thought. I can send both—a little blood metal along with enough champions to stop an army.
“He comes for you!” the chaos oracle warned. “He comes—a champion from the north! He rides now upon the water, bringing death and carnage!”
Zul-torac turned his back upon the oracle in a hot rage. “Not if I can help it,” Zul-torac said. He headed back down the mountain, back to the safety of the wyrmling’s indomitable fortress.
There he searched among the city’s champions until he found the right wyrmling for the job: Yikkarga, a captain who had been put under the protection of Lord Despair. He was a huge wyrmling, well versed in battle, with a vicious reputation. Just as importantly, he had many endowments to his credit.
“I am sending you north,” the emperor told him, “with a contingent of runelords. There is a human that needs killing. . . .”
13
The Borrowbird
To forgive another brings peace to an offended soul, and is far more beneficial for the offender than for him who is offended.
That first night, Draken took the rudder once Aaath Ulber succumbed to sleep, and sailed his little ship up north. The voyage across the ocean to Mystarria normally took six weeks, but their little vessel was light and swift. Being a new ship, it had no barnacles on the hull to slow its progress, and since the vessel carried no cargo, it sat light on the water, and when the sails unfurled, it seemed to fly.
Thus, Sage named the ship the Borrowbird. The name seemed appropriate. The vessel was white, like a borrowbird, and the birds were known for theft. They often raided the fruit trees, and were fond of trinkets. The males used bright stones to adorn their nests in the hopes of attracting females. The decorations often spread for several feet in a circle, and were wondrous to look upon, for the birds arranged stones and flowers by size and color and shape, creating collages that were lovely and bizarre, as if formed by the minds of gifted, otherworldly artists.
In the early spring the birds went about stealing pebbles from riverbeds, flowers from gardens, colorful bits of fruit or cloth, or shiny coins— anything that wasn’t nailed down. There was even an odd report of a borrowbird going so far as to steal an earring from a woman’s ear in order to get a glittering ruby.
With so many people wanting to steal the ship, the name was doubly appropriate. Draken didn’t like the name, for the association with theft was a constant reminder of how Aaath Ulber had killed Owen Walkin, and so Draken suggested a dozen other monikers that day.
But Sage was the youngest in the family now, and so her name stuck.
That first day, while Draken was at the helm, his mind was filled with wonder. He could not remember when he’d sailed to Landesfallen as a child. He’d been too young.
Now he was going back, but to what?
His mother came up to watch the sunset with him. She sat next to him at the rudder, staring out to sea. The ocean had been rough and wind driven part of the day, but now it calmed. The smell of salt was thick in his nostrils, and he wondered, “What do you think we’ll find when we get to Mystarria? Will it be as bad as Father thinks?”
Draken had only a vague notion of the threat imposed by the wyrmlings. He really couldn’t even envision what they looked like. But if Aaath Ulber was frightened of them, then he imagined that they must be terrible indeed.
“I think, we are sailing to war,” Myrrima said. “It is not just a suspicion. Water has called me to battle. I hope that this is the last time.”
Draken knew that his mother had faced terrors beyond imagination. She’d founded the Brotherhood of the Wolf and slain a Darkling Glory in her youth, and had fought reavers by the thousands. She’d battled Raj Ahten at the height of his powers.
Yet she seemed older to him and a just a bit frail, like a shirt that was growing threadbare from too much washing.
“To war with the wyrmlings?” he asked, and was surprised to find that his mouth went dry, and he had to lick his lips to moisten them. “Water has called you?”
Myrrima nodded slowly. He knew that it was an odd thing.
“Mother, surely there are water wizards on the far side of the world who could be of better service.”
Myrrima glanced at him, turning away from the sea. “I may no longer be strong in battle, but I am strong in wizardry; perhaps that is what we need in this war.”
“Father says that the wyrmlings may have a mountain of blood metal,” Draken objected. Sage came out of the galley and sat down with them.
“I wish that it were not so,” Myrrima said. “I don’t want the wyrmlings to have it. Certainly I don’t want to fight them for it.
“I wish that there was no more blood metal. It is an evil thing, the way that men use each other, the way that cruel men try to force their will upon the rest of the world. Men should not wield so much power.
“For the past few years, I have been glad that the mines in Kartish had played out. It seemed to me that it gave the world a rest, allowed mankind a chance to settle down, offered people a chance to work their gardens and raise their children.
“Your father and I have been content, more at peace than I had ever imagined.”
The sun was plunging into the water out on the distant sea, a bright golden orb dipping below the horizon. Draken saw a tear in his mother’s eye, something that he’d never witnessed before.
As a young man, he sometimes dreamt of war, imagining how he might prove himself on the field of battle. He’d never considered what a great gift peace could be.
Taking on firewood turned out to be as easy as sailing inland. The great tidal wave had deposited huge rafts of deadwood all along the coast, and in only a couple of hours the family was able to wrestle enough free for the entire voyage.
The greater worry was insufficient supplies. Draken had not been able to buy an ax in town, so he had nothing to cut the wood with. His father’s war hammer could be used to split the logs, but it was a poor substitute for a good wood ax.
Nor did he have a decent stone to sharpen his blades with, so he picked up an assortment of rocks to use as grinding stones.
There were other things that the family wanted—proper cups and plates, spices, leather to make shoes and boots, a good large skillet, grease for frying, and so on.
But Aaath Ulber insisted that they would have to do without.
Draken dared not argue. He found that he was uncomfortable in the giant’s presence. Aaath Ulber was an imposing figure, towering over everyone on the ship. And Draken had seen what happened when Aaath Ulber lost his temper.