David Farland - Chaosbound

But the door before him was made of flesh. Wyrmlings stood guard, a wall of them: tall men with axes and battle hooks. They were broad of shoulder and great of belly.

They glowed faintly from their own inner light, and Aaath Ulber felt surprised that he could see so well by it. There were glow worms on the ceiling and walls, and now that there was a floor, a few fire crickets erupted in sparks at his feet.

The guards were not dressed like normal wyrmling warriors. They wore no battle armor carved from bone, no ornate helms or shields. They wore only loincloths to hide their ugly flesh—and their war scars, hundreds of scars from the kiss of forcibles.

Their leader halted, raised his ax to bar the way. “Halt,” he said in common Rofehavanish. “You cannot pass.”

Aaath Ulber had suspected that the wyrmlings would have their Raj Ahten, but he had not expected to find one so soon.

Yet he saw not one champion, but five of the wyrmlings ahead.

“Are you sure of yourself?” Aaath Ulber asked. “Certainly you’ve heard of the prophecy?”

“You have entered the lair of the lich lord Crull-maldor,” the wyrmling said, “from which no man has ever returned. She knows your plans. She sat in on your councils.

“Did you not see the crow on the roof across the street as you plotted our demise? She saw your maps, heard your plans. While your pitiful little facilitator secured a few endowments for you, ours granted us thousands.”

Aaath Ulber hesitated. These wyrmlings were dangerous. Among the humans, Aaath Ulber had been the greatest of their champions in personal combat. But his people had numbered only forty thousand. If Aaath Ulber guessed right, there were more than forty thousand wyrmlings in this hole.

“Did you come to parlay with us?” Aaath Ulber demanded. “Or to fight?”

“Both,” the wyrmling admitted. “Crull-maldor bids you turn away from here. The emperor is the one you want. He has your people in thrall, those who are left alive.”

“I understand,” Aaath Ulber said. “She doesn’t dare try to kill him herself, so she wants me to do it.”

“Yes,” the wyrmling said. “Here is her offer: Turn away now, and she will let your Dedicates live. She will take no action against you.

“But if you forge ahead, she will punish you. She knows where your Dedicates are hid in Ox Port—every boat, every barn and cellar. Forge ahead, and they will not live out the day, for already our champions are at their doors!

“Nor will your wife Myrrima, your daughter Sage, or your son Draken survive the day. Forge ahead, and Crull-maldor will lay waste to your family and to all that you love.”

Aaath Ulber froze in indecision, and could have stood wavering for a year. He knew well that he could not turn back. There can be no bargaining with wyrmlings.

To accept their offer was suicide.

Yet he worried that to go forward would cost him dear.

They’re bluffing, he told himself, more from hope than certainty. And even if they’re telling the truth, I dare not turn back.

This is the moment that every man dreads, Aaath Ulber realized. This is the moment when all of the future hangs in the balance. At the end of this fight, either these wyrmlings will be destroyed, or all that I have loved most will be gone.

He feared that both might be true, that he could not really win this fight.

There is a saying in Caer Luciare: Frustration is the father of wrath. A killing rage awoke in Aaath Ulber.

The berserker fury had always been strong in him, but now it came as a flame blossoms when the bellows blow upon it in the heart of a forge.

It was hot, furious. Aaath Ulber feared this wyrmling, for the creature knew too much about him. Certainly, the wyrmling’s threats held an element of truth.

Yet Aaath Ulber roared a battle challenge, held his war hammer high, and rushed into the throng of wyrmlings at full speed.

Behind him, five heroes gave a battle cry and charged in at his back.

Dawn came silver and splendid to Ox Port, yet Myrrima’s heart felt heavy with foreboding.

The sun rose; the cocks crowed and strutted about on the streets and the roofs of the houses. The cows lowed and begged to be milked; the birds twitted in the bushes and sang their morning calls, the males warning one another from their trees.

But this was not to be a normal day. A war was about to erupt, furious and deadly. Myrrima could feel it in the pit of her stomach, a cold dread that left her guts and muscles in a tangled knot.

She took her borrowed bow and an arrow, and stood at the margin of the road, waiting for . . . something.

Each time a crow cawed in the trees, or a horse whinnied, it set her on edge. The mood was infectious.

The celebrations died abruptly after Aaath Ulber and his champions left, and everywhere throughout town, men and women by some instinct began taking up defensive positions, just in case. Thus archers hid in the lofts of barns, while men loitered in their doorways with clubs and swords handy, everyone casting furtive glances up the roads.

The facilitators were still singing in the town square, adding attributes to the heroes by giving endowments to their Dedicates, thus vectoring more attributes to the champions.

There was a sense of urgency to their songs. War was about to break.

Myrrima studied the scene and wished that there was some spell that she could cast. But she was a water wizard, and there was little that she could do but summon a fog to blanket the town.

Almost without thought she did it, pulling clouds of mist in from the sea. At first the mists sparkled in the sunlight, but so great was her fear that the fog soon became great indeed, blocking out the rising sun.

Shortly after dawn, when Aaath Ulber had been gone for an hour, Myrrima whispered into the ears of Warlord Hrath. He peered at her skeptically for a moment, then nodded.

Hrath turned to the crowd, clapped his hands, and called for attention. “People,” he shouted, “people of Ox Port, lend me your ears! We have an announcement—” He turned to Myrrima.

She stood in the cold gray fog, her face tired and expressionless. Yet there was an inner peace that burned in her eyes, like a glimmering pool. She said loudly and evenly, “All who wish to live, spit on the ground, giving water to the earth, and come to the great hall.”

A single tear streamed down Myrrima’s cheek and fell to the ground, her personal offering. She turned and marched east along the cobbled lane, heading toward the arena.

Warlord Hrath called to his people. “Go. She was a favored friend of the Earth King. Go with her. Take the Dedicates as well, all that you can find!”

So townsfolk came out of the mists bearing hundreds of Dedicates— all those who could walk or be carried.

Myrrima met the folks at the door, and splashed them with water from a bucket. “The waves wash you,” she said as she sprinkled droplets over the head and shoulders of each person. “The sea secure you. May water make you its own.”

She made sure that each person spit, and then bade the townsfolk enter.

As each person passed the threshold, a mist rose up at their feet and followed them into the arena, creating a dense fog.

It was not until Myrrima saw the Dedicates all herded together—blind and lame—that she realized just how many endowments had been given. More than eight hundred endowments had been granted in a town that hadn’t had many more people than that in the first place. Obviously, most of the Dedicates were from nearby villages and farms. But even the hundreds of Dedicates that gathered in town did not make up the full score. Dozens were still on boats, far enough out from shore so that they could not be reached.