“So,” Warlord Hrath asked, “you’re suggesting that we poison the wyrmlings.”
Aaath Ulber sat, pondering. That was exactly what had happened earlier in the night. The lich lord had incapacitated one of the Earth’s chosen, it seemed. But it was the young Wulfgaard who had struck the killing blow minutes later.
If indeed the monster had been under the protection of an Earth King, then it had done the creature little good.
Incapacitate first, then kill at leisure.
“Yes,” Aaath Ulber agreed, “poison would be one way to go about it. . . .”
Aaath Ulber peered around the room. The villagers were preparing to flee, but he realized that the spectacle would only attract more wyrmlings.
“Tell your people to stay in their houses,” Aaath Ulber warned Warlord Hrath. “As well as we can, we must maintain the illusion that it is business as usual here. Give me endowments, and I can protect the village.”
“But . . .” Hrath objected. “What if the wyrmlings find out what we’ve done and attack? We’ll have no way to protect your Dedicates.”
“We’ll hide them in attics and cellars as best we can.”
“And if the wyrmlings attack in force? We have no castle walls here to repel them. We have little in the way of troops.”
“Just as a runelord who is mighty with endowments needs little in the way of armor, I will protect you. My shield will be your castle wall, and I will fight your battles.”
Aaath Ulber still had blood on his hands and garments when he took his endowments that night. Rain watched as the warlords of Internook built a vast bonfire, and its ruddy light stained the hairs of the giant’s head a deeper shade of red and accentuated the blood splatter upon his clothes. In the firelight the nubs of horns stood out upon his brow. As Aaath Ulber waited in the village street, a keg of ale for his throne, an old man brought forcibles from some hiding spot in a nearby village.
He’d wrapped them in oilskin and hidden them in a keg of cider vinegar. Now the skins stank, even from Rain’s vantage point forty feet away.
“Those wyrmlings don’t have a taste for vinegar,” the old man explained. “Hide them in a keg of ale, and you’re asking for trouble. But put them in vinegar, and a wyrmling will never bother them.”
He laid out the forcibles—sixty of them, a surprisingly large number.
So the ceremony began. Rain had never seen an endowment ceremony before. Her father had been a lord, a wealthy man, but even in his days the mines of Kartish had been failing, so she’d never seen a forcible.
So she watched in fascination as the ceremony took form. A huge crowd had gathered at her back, perhaps some five thousand strong, and folks peered eagerly. Some folks had come out of mere curiosity. Others had come to give attributes. All of them seemed to be prodding and pushing at Rain’s back, trying to get a better view.
The evening was taking on a spectacle, as if it were a festival day and someone had brought fireworks from Indhopal.
Now the old man took out his forcibles and inspected each by firelight. The forcibles were rods, much in shape and size like a small spike, a little thicker than the heaviest wire and about the length of a man’s hand. They were made of blood metal, which was darker red than rusted iron, and which tasted like dried blood to the tongue.
At the tip of the forcible was a rune, a mystic shape that controlled which attribute might be taken from a Dedicate and transferred to a lord. The rune was about the size of a man’s thumbnail, and though the shape of the rune did not mimic anything seen in life, the shape alone had an aura of power about it, a sense of rightness to it, that defied understanding.
Each forcible was made from pure blood metal, which was so soft to the touch that a chance scrape with a fingernail could dent it. Thus, the runes at the head were easily damaged during transportation, and the wizard who used them had to make sure that the forcible was pristine and perfect, lest the endowment ceremony go awry.
So the old man studied the rune at the tip of each forcible, and sometimes he would take a file and pry a little here, or file a little there.
As he worked, Aaath Ulber got up and spoke, hoping to gain the hearts and approbation of the people.
“I am no common man,” he called out to the crowd. “You can see that by my appearance. But what you cannot see is that I am two men, two who were united into one when the worlds were bound.”
At that, the crowed oohed and aahed.
“One of those two men you may have heard of, for I was the bodyguard of the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden in his youth. I was Sir Borenson, and fought at the Earth King’s right hand when the reavers marched on Carris. I guarded his back when Raj Ahten sent his assassins against our king when he was only a lad, just as I guarded his son, Fallion Orden, and kept him safe in Landesfallen for these past ten years.
“Foul deeds I have done in the service of old King Orden, deeds that bloodied my hands and soiled my conscience. You have heard that I slew Raj Ahten’s Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta. More than two thousand men, women, and children I killed—in order to save my king, and our world.
“I did not shirk from bloodshed. I did not offer sympathy or condolences to those I murdered. It was a deed that shamed me, but it was a deed that I could not turn away from.
“I killed men that I had dined with and hunted with, men that I loved as if they were my own brothers. . . .”
Rain wondered at that. It was not the kind of thing that she would have bragged about. She feared Aaath Ulber, feared his lack of restraint, his raw brutality.
And here this crowd was, urging him on, empowering him.
“But that is only half the tale,” Aaath Ulber said, “for as I told you, I am two men bound into one.
“Aaath Ulber was my title on the shadow world that you saw fall from the heavens, a title that means Great Berserker. I was the foremost warrior among the men of my world, and more than two hundred wyrmlings have fallen beneath my ax and spear.
“Seven times did I plunge myself into the depths of wyrmling fortresses, and once when no one else survived, I made it out alone.
“I do not tell you this to boast,” Aaath Ulber continued, “I tell you this so that you will know: I plan to kill our common enemy. I will show no compassion, spare no child.
“I am two men in one shell. I have trained for two lifetimes, and gained skills that neither world had ever seen.
“I am stronger now than either man was alone—faster, stronger, better prepared.
“The wyrmlings fear me because I am the most dangerous man alive. I speak their language. I know their ways. I have breached their fortresses time and time again. The wyrmlings shall have nothing from me— nothing from us—but an ignoble death!
“This I pledge you: Those who grant endowments to me this day will strike a blow against the wyrmlings. I shall not faint, nor shall I retreat. Death to all wyrmlings!”
At that the folks of Ox Port cheered and raised their weapons, shouting war cries. Some women wept openly, while alewives poured mug after mug, and the men raised them in toast.
What better way to gain endowments, Rain thought, than to take them from drunken barbarians.
As Aaath Ulber finished, the old man held up a completed forcible and called out its name. “Brawn? Who will grant brawn to our champion?”
“Does he need any more brawn?” some warrior shouted, and many men guffawed.
“I am strong,” Aaath Ulber agreed, “but I go to face wyrmling runelords that are stronger still. A hundred endowments of brawn I need, no less! And I need them this night—for I must cleanse this island of our wyrmling foes!”
“Hurrah!” the men cheered, and a huge barbarian strode forward, eager to be the first.
The old man cheered and shouted, “Bless you! Bless you. May the Bright Ones protect you, and the Glories guard your back!” He clapped the barbarian on the shoulder and the ceremony began.