Chaosbound (37 page)

Every breath was bought with pain, for Aaath Ulber had more than one cracked rib. He took a deep inhalation, and laughed. “You're the one with armor and weapons, yet you're afraid of me.” Aaath Ulber danced to the side, and the wyrmling blurred to intercept.

Quick, too damned quick, Aaath Ulber realized.

“I do not fear you,” the wyrmling roared in challenge. “I shall roast your flesh on the end of my sword, and your blood will run down my chin this night!”

Aaath Ulber couldn't guess how many endowments the wyrmling had. His speech gave a hint. He spoke quickly, an octave too high.

But it was his breathing that gave him away. A man with metabolism draws breath more quickly. By counting the seconds between breaths, one can estimate how many endowments of metabolism a foe might have.

On average, a man draws about one breath every three or four seconds.

The wyrmling was drawing one breath every second.

No less than three endowments of metabolism, Aaath Ulber suspected, but perhaps no more than four . . . unless, of course, the wyrmling was purposely slowing his breathing, in order to hide the number of endowments that he had taken.

That was the problem when facing a runelord. You could never be certain how many endowments they might have. A smarter wyrmling might have refused to react just a moment ago. He might have tried to keep Aaath Ulber guessing whether he even had endowments.

But this wyrmling was dumb. It wasn't just his lack of strategy that convinced Aaath Ulber. It was the vacant look in the creature's eyes.

This fight is rigged, Aaath Ulber realized. The enemy wants me to win.

But why? To get rid of one useless warrior? That made no sense.

Unless this battle is only meant to warm the crowd, Aaath Ulber thought. Perhaps another wyrmling is waiting in the wings, ready to fight, hoping to expand his reputation.

That felt like the right answer.

Which means that I must conserve my energy, Aaath Ulber thought.

He took stock of his wounds—swollen eyes, blood loss from his ear and leg, broken ribs.

And everything else hurts, too, he thought.

It is possible to fight a man who has more endowments of speed than you, Aaath Ulber knew. A man who is well trained in battle, who acts and reacts without thought, can sometimes beat a man who has taken several attributes of speed. That is because a runelord with such attributes learns to use them as a crutch. They imagine that they are so much faster than a commoner that they can decide how to attack or defend when the battle is upon them.

But Aaath Ulber had been practicing to fight faster opponents all of his life, and he was going to teach this wyrmling a trick or two.

He shouted and lunged to the wyrmling's left, keeping clear of its blade. He grabbed its shield and jerked, pulling the wyrmling toward him, then used his momentum to get behind the monster. With a single bound and twist, he was on the creature's back. He worked an arm down beneath the wyrmling's chin and put the creature in a choke hold, then just dug his knees into the creature's back.

The wyrmling bawled, like an enraged bull, and struggled to shrug him off, batting his shield back uselessly, then spinning in an effort to throw him off.

For two seconds Aaath Ulber rode the monster. Suddenly it realized that Aaath Ulber could not be dislodged, so it threw its weight, all eight hundred pounds, back against the logs that lined the arena.

Aaath Ulber's ribs cracked, and the air went out of him. He wrenched his arms up tighter, and clamped a hand over the wyrmling's mouth and nose.

To strangle a man properly took time—two or three minutes. But a man could go unconscious in as little as thirty seconds. A man who was exerting himself in battle might go even faster.

But this wrymling had endowments of metabolism. He burned through his air more quickly than a normal man.

Ten seconds, Aaath Ulber told himself. I only have to hold on for ten seconds.

The wyrmling stepped forward and then leaned to hurl himself backward once again. Aaath Ulber knew that he could not take another blow like the last.

He kicked off against the wall, seeking to throw the wyrmling off balance. But the wyrmling did not fall. Instead he spun again.

He is not thinking clearly, Aaath Ulber realized. He's craving breath.

The wyrmling shook his head, trying to break free of Aaath Ulber's grasp, and tried to bite Aaath Ulber's hand. He was almost out of the fight. His movements were slowing.

He reared back, tried to bash Aaath Ulber into the wall once more. But he was weakening, and when he drew back, he staggered. Aaath Ulber kicked backward striking the wall, and broke the wyrmling's momentum.

He clutched all the tighter, and suddenly the wyrmling seemed to remember that he had a sword. He reversed the grip, struck blindly overhead, trying to slash.

But Aaath Ulber threw his own weight forward and used his elbow to impede the wyrmling's attack. The sword blow never landed.

The wyrmling staggered forward and then fell. Aaath Ulber became aware that the crowd was chanting: “He-ro, he-ro, he-ro!”

He held on, kept strangling even though the wyrmling was down. When the creature went still, Aaath Ulber quickly grabbed its sword from the floor and lopped off the wyrmling's helmeted head.

He raised it high as the crowd of barbarians chanted. Blood flowed liberally from the severed head, splattering down over Aaath Ulber's
shoulders. Many a man threw up his mug of ale, in toast to Aaath Ulber's battle prowess.

Not that I'll live long, Aaath Ulber told himself. I might be able to take a dim-witted wyrmling with only three endowments of metabolism, but the enemy has better warriors waiting in the wings.

“Toast!” the barbarians shouted, mugs held high. “Toast! Toast!”

They want me to drink from the wyrmling's head, Aaath Ulber realized.

He paraded around the ring, blood dripping down upon him; he spotted Rain in the crowd.

A door suddenly opened in the wall, a man-sized portcullis that led into a dark corridor.

The men were still cheering, urging him to drink. Aaath Ulber opened his mouth and raised the head high, as if to let blood pour down his throat.

Then he smiled in jest and flung the wyrmling's head into the crowd. He grabbed up the creature's sword, took a torch from its sconce, and strode into the dim recesses, armed to meet his fate.

Rain had been dazzled by the spectacle. She huddled against a back wall, as far into the shadows as she could get, and now searched frantically for Wulfgaard.

She hadn't been able to spot him earlier among the crowd. So many of the men looked similar.

She spotted Wulfgaard on the far side of the room, high in the shadows. He was huddled with several men, who cast their eyes about, as if they feared being watched.

They were a rough crowd, most of them younger men with murder in their eyes.

“Good show!” one old warlord muttered as he got to his feet. “That giant is fast. No wonder the wyrmlings want him.”

Another murmured, “Reminds me of myself, in my youth.”

There were guffaws, but no real laughter. The men looked worried,
beaten. One of them glanced up toward Wulfgaard and whispered, “Do you think they can save him?”

“Don't know if I'd want them to save a blackguard who wouldn't drink to me,” the oldest of the men said.

So, Rain realized, Wulfgaard's plan is an open secret.

She arose, and as the crowds thinned, she made her way across the room.

Wulfgaard looked up and fixed her with his eyes as she neared. He left his small band of warriors.

“A woman and a young man were taken by the wyrmlings tonight, during the moot. They were strangers to our town, both with dark hair. . . .”

Rain fought back a frantic impulse to scream. “That would be Draken and Myrrima,” she said in clipped tones.

Wulfgaard bit his lower lip, peered down at the floor. “We will have to work fast if we are to save them.”

“But the wyrmlings,” Rain said. “How will you fight them?”

“With these,” Wulfgaard said. He pulled up his shirtsleeve to reveal white puckered scars upon his arm—runes of brawn, grace, stamina, and a single endowment of metabolism.

It was not much to fight a wyrmling with, but Wulfgaard's cohorts looked both dangerous and determined.

“When will you strike?” Rain asked.

Wulfgaard studied his men. There were seven of them. The arena had nearly cleared. He gathered his courage and said, “What better time than now?”

With that, he nodded to the men. A huge warrior with blond locks stood up, pulled a short sword from his boot, and strode down toward the arena. He glanced back at his men. “Right, you men saw how it's done: no hesitation, no standing about. Now let's go free these wyrmling gents from the cruel vicissitudes of their mortal existence.”

The others produced weapons from the folds of their sleeves, from inside vests and boots, then followed in line, swaggering killers out for a night of fun.

“Wait,” Rain said before Wulfgaard could follow them. “Don't you have a plan?”

“There are already men outside the doors to make sure that no wyrmlings escape,” Wulfgaard said. “We know the ground. Most of us have been playing in this arena since we could crawl. Grab a torch.”

When they got to the fighting pit, each man took a torch, then jumped into the arena. One of them picked up the dead wyrmling's shield, and the men made their way into the dark passage, running swiftly and silently, hot on Aaath Ulber's trail.

The passage was a simple affair chiseled through sandstone. It led some hundred feet from the arena, climbing up a gradual slope to a large room littered with cages. Some were mere boxes that might hold a wolverine. Others were huge affairs massive enough for a snow ox.

Aaath Ulber could not recall having been here before. The wyrmlings had dragged him to the arena in a daze, and then wakened him by jabbing a harvester spike in his leg.

The only light came from his torch and from the powdery stars that shone through a high open window. Four wyrmlings were in the room, all dressed in battle armor. One jutted his chin toward the largest cage, which was taller than a man and made of thick iron bars. Bear dung littered the bottom of it.

“Into your cage, human,” the wyrmling muttered.

Aaath Ulber stood for a moment, sword in hand, and considered his alternatives.

“You're good,” a wyrmling said, giving a feral chuckle, “but not that good.”

Instantly the wyrmling blurred, moving so fast that he defied the eye. Before Aaath Ulber could react, the sword was plucked from his hand. A simple shove left him tumbling into the cage, sprawling into the bear dung, and then the iron door clanked shut.

The wyrmlings laughed.

Aaath Ulber got to his hands and knees, looked up at the wyrmling
that had shoved him. The creature had to have eight endowments of metabolism, more than even Aaath Ulber could hope to best. Aaath Ulber picked up his torch from the floor and asked, “You sent a fool to fight me! Why?”

“Everyone in those seats has seen a man die,” the wyrmling answered. “We want them to see
hope
die. But it hurts a bit more, if it is nurtured first.”

A cold wind suddenly swept into the room, sending a chill up Aaath Ulber's spine. It was a sensation he'd felt only three times in his life. A wight had entered the room.

He peered up, licked his lips, searching for the creature. But he could not see the ghost light that sometimes announced the dead. This one was keeping to its shadow form.

The wyrmlings in the room seemed not to notice. They were accustomed to the presence of wights.

A wight, Aaath Ulber reasoned, will be their leader. . . . It will keep away from the torch.

Aaath Ulber looked toward the torch. It had begun to gutter, as if in a high wind, struggling to stay lit.

“I don't plan on dying easily,” Aaath Ulber said, rising to his feet.

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