The wyrmling flailed about, but its sword was useless. He swatted back with his shield, equally useless. The great monster whirled and threw himself backward, crushing Aaath Ulber into the wooden posts that ringed the arena; for a moment Aaath Ulber’s eyes rolled back in pain as the wind was knocked from him. But Aaath Ulber clung to the wyrmling like death, and the audience went wild, shouting, “Ride him! Ride him to the ground!”
The young elder shoved Draken again. “Run!” he warned. “Head for the woods. The streets are not safe!”
Draken turned to leave. The rising moon glanced off the cobbled streets, and not a hundred yards away he saw something.
It was a great boar, like those his father had hunted far to the south in the Dunnwood of Heredon. It was a huge shaggy beast, with hair on its chest that swept the ground, and massive curling tusks that glinted like skeletal teeth.
Atop the boar was barding that gleamed like silver in the moonlight—chains across its back, and a fearsome helm that covered its head and snout.
But it was not the great boar that took his breath away, it was the creature riding its back.
“Wyrmling!” Myrrima breathed in warning, and Draken thought to run. But the wyrmling leapt from its mount in a single fluid movement and seemed to flow toward them with superhuman speed.
Eight endowments of metabolism it has, Draken thought, perhaps more.
And a sudden realization hit home. The warlords of Internook were not keeping pet wyrmlings. The wyrmlings were keeping pet humans.
Draken tried to whirl and flee into the crowded arena, but the doorman grabbed him from behind in a choking hold.
“I have him, milord!” the doorman cried.
In the flutter of a heartbeat, the wyrmling grabbed Myrrima and pulled her upward in the air, nearly snapping her neck in the process, as if she were no heavier than a doll woven from straw.
Then its free hand grabbed Draken and hurled him against the wall. Lights flashed behind his eyes like exploding stars, and he heard bones crack.
He sank into pain and forgetfulness.
21
Brotherhood
The call of the wolf is the call of the Brotherhood. When you hear it, know that your brothers are in danger, and evil is near.
Three times during the day, Rain had tried to follow Wulfgaard from the stable. But each time, their attempt was cut short.
The wyrmling patrols came often. Sometimes they’d march by three minutes apart. Sometimes the roads would be clear for half an hour. But regardless of how seldom patrols came by, it was clear to Rain that the streets were not safe.
The markets did not reopen. No fishmongers called from their stalls. No one wandered the streets.
Rain and her newfound cohort could not sneak out.
“The wyrmlings have all the advantage,” Wulfgaard told her. “They can stand on a hill two miles off and watch the streets with ease. With their endowments of sight, nothing misses their attention. With their endowments of metabolism, some of them can run a hundred miles in an hour. If we walk into the open, they’ll rush down upon us, and there is no escape.”
The young man did not talk loudly. His voice was all whispers, lest a wyrmling be within hearing range.
The power of a great runelord of course was legendary, and evil men with such power were the stuff of nightmares. But the wyrmlings were doubly frightening.
“We must wait until the wyrmlings give the townsfolk the all-clear. Then we can blend in with the crowds.”
So the two waited, Rain biting her lip, sometimes twisting her ring nervously. The hay that they lay in smelled fragrant. It was a mixture of grasses—fescue and oats, with sweet clover and a bit of alfalfa. It had been harvested only recently, weeks before, and so did not have the underlying odor of mold. Rain and Wulfgaard had covered most of their bodies with it, to hide their scent. They left only their faces exposed, so that they could breathe, and speak.
“You said that you need help,” Rain asked once when the streets were dead quiet, and they did not fear the wyrmlings. Even then she whispered softly, so that her words barely carried to Wulfgaard’s ear. “What makes you think that you need Aaath Ulber?”
“The wyrmlings fear him,” Wulfgaard says. “They do not fear anyone else, even the greatest of our lords. . . . So the Brotherhood has been searching for blood metal.”
“You found some?” Rain asked.
“We did—a stone here, a small cache there. The wyrmlings have managed to get most of it, but there are stores of it hidden away. . . . We have forged our forcibles in secret, and there are many who are just waiting for the hero to arise.”
“You think Aaath Ulber is that hero?”
“He’s a giant, sailing from the north—a man who knows the wyrmling strongholds . . . and their weaknesses. Who else could it be?”
No one that Rain knew. But she couldn’t reconcile her feelings. Aaath Ulber was dangerous to the wyrmlings, but he wasn’t the kind of man she’d pick to be her hero.
“We’ve been preparing for weeks,” Wulfgaard said. “The wyrm lings have taken many of our people, our best fighting men, and marched them down into their fortress to harvest their endowments, or sent them to the mines to work in chains. I am one of the few who has escaped attention. I feign a bad back, so that they will not take me.
“Each day, our people grow weaker and the wyrmlings grow stronger. We cannot afford to wait. . . .”
“Would your people grant him endowments?”
“Some would,” Wulfgaard said hesitantly. “Perhaps many will rally to his cause.”
“What would stop them from giving aid?” Rain asked.
“The wyrmlings are everywhere. Their scouts are on guard for those who have given endowments. Those who are too sick to walk or to work, are culled. A man who gives endowments . . . I do not think he would last a week.”
It would take great courage to give an endowment under such circumstances. Rain wondered how many might really do it. But no one doubted the warlords of Internook. For generations their barbarian hordes had been trained to rush into battle against runelords with more endowments and better armor, and throw themselves against their enemies’ spears. No warriors in the world had greater courage.
Rain asked, “You said that you needed Aaath Ulber’s help. . . .”
“There is a girl,” Wulfgaard said, “my beloved. The wyrmlings took her. For the past six weeks they have been demanding thralls—men and women to be stripped of attributes. The wyrmlings put them on ships and sailed them to Mystarria, under the eternal clouds.
“None that have been taken shall ever return.
“But I am not the only one to lose a loved one,” Wulfgaard added. “Tens of thousands have been taken, and nearly everyone in the land feels the loss. They may have been deprived of a brother, or mother, or perhaps a friend.”
“Why would the wyrmlings want your betrothed?” Rain asked. “Grace, glamour, metabolism?”
“Glamour,” Wulfgaard said. “She is very beautiful.”
Rain wondered. Would a wyrmling care about taking an attribute of glamour? She suggested softly, “Aaath Ulber said that the wyrmlings eat human flesh.”
Wulfgaard was stricken, and he barely muttered, “We have suspected as much, but I hoped that it was not true. They do not have fields or gardens. . . .”
“Because they don’t need them,” Rain confirmed. “They eat only flesh. And there is more. The wyrmlings cut the heads off of people and extract glands from them, to use in making their weapons. They are called ‘harvester spikes.’ They are nails that the wyrmlings push into their flesh before they go into battle. Have you seen them?”
By now, Wulfgaard’s face had gone pale indeed. He was trembling. He shook his head no. He had not seen the spikes.