Chaosbound (42 page)

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.

It was evident that the old man was not well practiced in the taking of endowments. His hands trembled as he began to sing, so that the rod shook. In some distant day, he might have been a facilitator to some warlord, a mage who specialized in taking endowments. But forcibles had become so rare in the past few years. Now he closed his eyes and began to sing a wordless song that felt strained and uncomely.

It was not words really, but repeated sounds—groans and humming, interspersed with sharp harking calls. There was music in his song, but it
felt wild and unrestrained, like a driving wind as it coils through mountain valleys, blowing this way one moment, another way the next.

Rain grew lost in the song, mesmerized, until soon the chanting and humming seemed to be part of her, something flowing in her blood.

Just as she lost herself, she wakened to the smell of burning flesh. The old facilitator had taken the forcible and pressed it to the barbarian's bared chest, and during the course of the song the metal had turned white-hot.

Hair scalded and flesh burned. The barbarian's face was hard and stony, his eyes unfocused. He knelt, staring at Aaath Ulber while the facilitator branded him with the searing iron. Sweat streamed down the Dedicate's brow, and his jaw quivered from pain, but he did not let out a sound.

Then the facilitator danced away, held up the hot branding iron. As he did, the forcible left a white trail in the darkness, a worm of pale white light that hung in the air as solidly as if it were carved from wood.

The children cried out “Ah!” and marveled.

The facilitator waved his forcible in the air, creating knots of white light, like a giant rope. One end of the rope was anchored to the barbarian's chest, while the other end blazed at the tip of the forcible. The facilitator studied the light trail, gazing at it from various angles, and at last took the rod to Aaath Ulber.

The giant pulled open his own vest, revealing a chest that was much scarred—both from old battle wounds and from the kiss of the forcible.

It is said that receiving an endowment, any endowment, grants the lord who takes it immense pleasure, and now Aaath Ulber's eyes fluttered back in his head, as if he would faint from ecstasy.

The facilitator plunged the metal rod into Aaath Ulber's chest, and in an instant the trail of white light that connected the two broke. The worm of light shot out of the barbarian's chest like a bolt, and with a hissing sound it rushed toward Aaath Ulber. It struck the forcible, which turned to dust and disappeared, and for an instant the light seemed to well up in Aaath Ulber's chest, threatening to escape. A white pucker arose on his skin in the shape of a rune, and suddenly the air filled with the acrid odor of his singed hair and the pleasant scent of cooked skin, so much like the scent of pork roasting upon a spit.

His head lolled, and he nearly swooned.

But the fate of he who grants an endowment is not so sure. The giving of an attribute causes such agony that it cannot be described. Women claim that the pain of childbirth pales in comparison, and almost always the Dedicate who grants an endowment will wail in pain, sometimes sobbing for hours afterward.

But this big barbarian did not cry out. He did not even whimper. He merely sat stoically, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow, until at last he fainted from the effort of staying upright.

His strength had left him completely.

In a tense moment, everyone watched the barbarian to see if he still breathed. Too often, a man who gave his strength gave more than his strength: he gave his life. For when the strength left him, his heart might be too weak to beat, or his lungs might cease to draw breath.

But the barbarian lay on the ground, breathing evenly, and even managed to raise his arms, as if to crawl. He fell to his belly and chuckled, “I'm as weak as a babe!”

At that there was a shout of celebration, for if he could talk, then he would survive.

Thus the endowment ceremony began, with those who offered greater endowments leading the way. The greater endowments included brawn, grace, wit, and stamina, and granting them was dangerous business. A man who gave too much stamina was prone to catch every little fever that swept through a village. Those who gave up grace often cramped up on themselves; their muscles, unable to loosen, would either cause them to strangle for lack of air or to starve. Even those who gave wit might pass away, for in the first few moments after granting the endowment, a man's heart might forget how to beat.

Thus, courageous men and women came to offer up endowments, and with each successful transfer the celebration deepened, for it was proved
that the old man knew how to transfer attributes without killing his Dedicates.

Rain noticed a young woman at the edge of the firelight thrown from a torch, spreading salve upon one of the injured warriors who had helped fight at the arena. Rain went and borrowed some salve from her, a balm that smelled rich from herbs, and took it to Draken.

Gingerly, she placed the salve on his ear, where his captor had bitten it off. Draken did not jerk or start away when she touched him. Instead, he leaned into her, savoring her presence though it cost him pain.

She teased him, “You Borensons, with that odd gap where your ear should be: I do hope that our children don't inherit the trait.”

Draken smiled up at her, his eyes gleaming, and pulled her close for a hug. He glanced around. All eyes were on Aaath Ulber, so he pulled Rain into the darkness in the shadows of a building and kissed her roughly.

For weeks now, on the boat, they'd been unable to find a place to be alone, had not dared kiss. Now he made up for it.

He kissed her lips, her cheeks, and hugged her so tightly that it took her breath away. He finally pulled back her hair, studied her in the weak light of the stars.

“I'm glad that the wyrmlings didn't get your ear,” he said. “I've been longing to nibble on it.”

He leaned in, chewed on her ear, and the passion inside her flamed to life. He was hugging her, so that his whole body pressed against her. She felt his strong chest firm against her breast, and she ached to race off into the woods, into the shadows, to be alone with him.

But she knew that the time was not right. She wanted a proper wedding, with family and friends gathered around to witness. So after a time, they stole back to watch the endowment ceremony.

Myrrima was there, at the edge of the light, her face stony. She looked as if she had been beaten.

“Have you spoken to your mother?” Rain asked, wondering what was wrong.

“No,” Draken answered, clinging tightly to her hand. “Why?”

“She looks so sad,” Rain said, and suddenly she knew why. Aaath Ulber was taking endowments, endowments of metabolism that would kill him. It might not kill him in an instant, but they would shorten his life by decades.

“Your father's killing himself,” Rain said. “He's sacrificing himself, and he didn't even ask your mother's permission . . . he didn't talk to you, or Sage.”

Draken held silent for a while. “He has another family now, too. I guess that their need outweighs ours.” Draken sighed. “He's sacrificing himself for both of his families.”

Rain bit her lip, appalled at the sacrifices this system of magic required. A few moments ago she had feared that one of the Dedicates might die in this process, and she'd felt relieved to see him survive. But now she realized that Aaath Ulber was the victim this night.

He would die from his wounds, even if the wyrmlings didn't kill him. Nothing could save him.

Aaath Ulber grew mighty during the course of that night, and as he did, his appearance altered subtly.

With three endowments of wit, a new light shone in his eyes, a keenness to his perceptions. He would now learn more quickly and would not forget anything that he saw or heard.

As he garnered endowments of brawn, his back straightened and his massive bulk seemed to hang on him easily.