Chaosbound

by David Farland

  Old widow Taramont, half blind and crippled by age, was puttering at the door to her home, calling for help.

  Farther west, townsfolk were stirring. A young girl raced down the road beside the river; dozens of folks were charging behind her, hoping to outrun the great wave.

  Then the sea came.

  The flood surged into the valley and followed the course of the Hacker River as it snaked through the hills. A wall of water two hundred feet high blasted through the canyon, thundering over the village, crushing houses, Borenson’s barn, sweeping neighbors away.

  It crashed into the ruins of the old fortress, knocking down stone walls that had stood for sixteen hundred years.

  The sea ripped up trees and sent them rumbling in a wall before it. Borenson saw flashes of pale bodies, victims of the flood, mingled among the ruins.

  The water thrashed below, raising a fine mist that wetted Borenson in a muddy rain. Then the wall hurried on, filling up the valley as the sea sought its new bounds, creating a long irregular inlet.

  A rainbow formed in the mist above the ruin, a cruel joke of nature.

  For a long moment Borenson searched for signs of life. The water was filthy, as dark as loam. Bits of bark and even whole trees came bobbing to the surface, along with patches of thatch roof.

  He waited breathlessly to hear someone shout for help, to see a pale body thrashing in the dark waves.

  But nothing moved down there—not so much as a wet cat. The weight of the water had crushed the townsfolk, snuffing out their lives as completely as if they were but the tender flames of candles.

  It seemed forever that he stood rooted to the ground.

  Borenson recognized what had happened. Fallion had done it! Fallion had bound two worlds together—the world of Borenson and the world of Aaath Ulber.

  For some reason when the worlds had combined, Borenson and Aaath Ulber combined, too. Yet he wondered why none of the others around him had been similarly transformed.

  It was said that other people lived on shadow worlds; it was as if when the One True World splintered, the folk of the One True World had splintered too.

  It was believed by some that every man was therefore incomplete and had shadow selves upon far worlds.

  Borenson had always thought it idle speculation.

  But somehow in the binding Borenson had bound together with Aaath Ulber, his “shadow self.” Two men, each living his own life upon a different world, had fused into one body.

  The notion was staggering. He didn’t have time to comprehend it. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the implications.

  He wondered why Fallion had bound only two worlds. Why not all of them? Why not bind a million, million worlds all at once, and re-create the perfect world of legend?

  Perhaps it’s an experiment, Borenson imagined. Fallion is testing his powers.

  He worried. If Fallion had bound two worlds together, then that meant that he had already made it to the Lair of Bones deep in the Underworld.

  Considering the devastation that Fallion had wrought here, what must Fallion be going through now? Borenson wondered. There might have been cave-ins in the tunnels. They might have filled with water.

  For all that Borenson knew, Fallion and his friends were all dead.

  If this binding had been a trial, it had gone horribly awry. Chances were that the experiment might never be repeated.

  Only then did the magnitude of the destruction begin to sink in. Here in Landesfallen, the vast majority of the people lived in cities along the coast, while a few others lived in river valleys like this one.

  If we had been on the coast, Borenson realized, we’d all be dead.

  Without my crops, he considered, we may be dead anyway.

  Young Draken peered at the crashing waters and spoke some words that Borenson had not heard in many long years. “The Ends of the Earth is not far enough. . . .” He turned and glanced at his father. “Do you think he knew?”

  The boy was referring to the warning that the Earth King had uttered when he died, the words that had sent Borenson fleeing to Landesfallen. At Garion’s Port, fifty miles to the west of here, two huge stones flanked the bay, stones called the Ends of the Earth. And upon his death, the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden had warned Borenson that the Ends of the Earth were not far enough. Borenson had known that he had to flee inland.

  Had Gaborn sensed this flood? Borenson wondered. Could he have known what would befall us, ten years in the future?

  Borenson sighed. “He knew. His prescience was a thing of legend.”

  The refugees all fell in exhaustion and lay panting, peering down at the flood. The ground still shook, and the water thundered. But the sound was receding.

  The starvelings seemed to be floundering in despair. Driven from their homes, and now this.

  I’m as poor as them, Borenson thought. Poorer, for at least they have a few sacks full of belongings.

  Borenson sat down on the rocks; Myrrima knelt at his side. Draken and Sage followed, and all of them focused on Erin, weeping, their eyes full of concern.

  Borenson’s youngest daughter was fading. There was nothing that anyone could do. Perhaps Myrrima’s touch and her kisses could ease the child’s passing, but Myrrima could not save her.

  For several long minutes Erin gasped, struggling only to breathe, too far gone to speak.

  Then at last her eyelids fluttered, and Erin’s piercing blue eyes rolled back into her head. Her chest stopped rising, and now a gurgle escaped her throat as her chest fell one last time. It was a sound that Borenson associated with strangling.

  Life fled from her.

  Borenson sat cradling his sweet daughter Erin; Myrrima cried in despair.

  There was nothing left to do but mourn.

  A vast gaping void seemed to yawn wide and black in Borenson’s soul.

  There is no beauty in death, he realized.

  2

  THE CROW RIDER

  The eyes of the Great Wyrm are upon you, though you see her not, for she can ride the mind of the rat and the roach, the crow and the owl. She is aware of all of your doings, and will take vengeance for those who are weak, and offer blessings to those who serve her well.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  In the cool light of predawn, a carrion crow searched a tidal pool, tilting her head to the right to listen for prey and to get a better look into the pool. The water was flat and as clear as crystal. In the shallows the crow spotted myriads of anemones, bright starbursts of green and purple, while orange starfish grazed along the rocks among gray-blue barnacles. In the deeper water an ugly sculpin fish, mottled in shades of muddy brown, lay finning in the sand. The crow held back from gulping it down, for the fish was full of bones that could lodge in her chicks’ throat.

  She was seeking for soft young shrimp that might be trudging about in the shallows, but saw a cockle in the sand, its heart-shaped shell wide open. She grabbed it in her beak, but it snapped closed instantly.

  So she hurled it against a rock until the shell shattered. Then she held the cockle under one talon while she pulled the sweet meat free with her beak.

  Suddenly the carrion crow felt a cool touch, a wind that hinted at winter, and looked up in alarm, ruffling her feathers. She cawed in warning to others of her kind, though the beach was empty, and then peered about, her black eyes blinking as she searched for the source of her fear.

  There was a shape above her, hiding beneath a twisted pine on a craggy ledge. It was not moving. It was large and white of skin, much like the wyrmlings that the crow sometimes saw marching along the ridge in the predawn. But it was ill-shaped, and though it had sockets for eyes, she saw nothing in its eye holes but empty shadows.

  Suddenly the bloated figure dropped, its ugly white skin deflating, like a bubble in the water that has popped. In that instant, a shadow blurred toward her, and the crow recognized the source of her fear. . . .

  Crull-maldor lunged from the shadows, abandoning her cloak of
glory, her malevolent spirit but a darker shade among the morning shadows, and she seized the crow. She did not grab it with physical hands, did not rend it with teeth or fingers. Instead, she took it with her mind and her will, forcing her spirit into the tiny shell of its body, grasping hold of its consciousness.

  Almost, Crull-maldor could imagine the voice of her ancient master Yultonkin warning, “Do not be too eager to seize the mind of a bird, for birds are prey to many, to the hawk and coyote, the bobcat and the mink, and if you should die while your two minds are joined, you may never be able to return to your flesh.”

  So once she had seized control of the bird’s mind, Crull-maldor blinked, peering about for signs of danger, looking out from the eyes of the crow.

  The world was distorted. The crow’s eyes were set upon the side of its head, and so it had a vast field of vision, and it could focus with only one eye at a time. The crow saw a wider spectrum of colors than Crull-maldor could with her own eyes. The crow saw the blacks and whites and reds that a wyrmling can see, but it also saw greens and blues and yellows, and everything had a crystalline clarity that Crull-maldor envied.

  So Crull-maldor scanned for danger.

  The beach was a wasteland, rocky and uninviting. A few huge walruses could be seen in the distance, surfing in upon some waves to spend the day swatting at sand flies on the beach. But there was little else. Few gulls. No hawks or foxes.

  The lich had little to fear in the way of predators, she knew. The powerful spells that let her cling to life allowed her to exist only by siphoning off spiritual energy from creatures around her, and as she drew off that energy, the plants and animals around her weakened and succumbed. Most of the Northern Wastes were barren of life not because they were infertile, but because the presence of her kind drew so much from the land. There were no fine trees here anymore, and fewer herds of caribou and musk oxen than there had once been. Crull-maldor and her disciples had sucked the life from such creatures long ago. Now the lifeless land left her weak. Nearly all that survived within fifty miles of here was a few tenacious gorse bushes, insects, and the larger creatures that haunted the beaches.

  Now comfortable, Crull-maldor gobbled the tender yellow innards of the cockle in one swallow. It tasted of sand and shell and salt. The savor was not altogether pleasing, but she would need sustenance this day.

  The carrion crow leapt into the air, then flew up into the pines. Crull-maldor loved the sense of freedom that came with flying.

  The bird was eager to return to its nest, regurgitate the cockle into the mouth of her babes. But Crull-maldor wrestled for control, forbidding it.

  It was a struggle, a constant struggle, to take control of living things. Even after a hundred and eighty-two years of practicing the skill, Crullmaldor found her hold upon this beast to be tenuous.

  Yet she held on to the crow with her mind. Seizing it with claw and talons would not have been half so cruel, for the crow ached to return to its nest.

  As the sun rose, a luminous pearl climbing up from the sea, the carrion crow found itself leaping into the air, and flying out over the waters to the south.

  Crull-maldor dominated the crow completely now, and peered out through its eyes, scanning the distant horizon for ships.

  All that she saw were a few large wyrmling fishing vessels, their square sails the color of blood.

  The crow would tire and falter long before it reached the distant shore, some two hundred miles south, Crull-maldor knew. When it did, Crullmaldor would let it fall and drown. Until then, she felt the exhilaration of flight. . . .

  Such was her lot, day after endless day. There is a price to be paid for working in the service of evil, and the lich lord Crull-maldor was paying it. She was too powerful in the ways of magic for others to kill. Indeed, she had mastered dark magics known to no one else. Thus, she held the exalted position of Grand Wizard of the Wyrmling Hordes, and was far too dangerous for her political rivals to want around. So one hundred and eighty-seven years ago, the emperor Zul-torac had “promoted” her, sending her to lead the garrison at the wyrmling fortress in the Great Wastes of the North.

  As such, it was her duty to protect this land from intrusion, to keep the humans from ever returning. Her armies occupied the wastes, and it was her job to feed and clothe them. Thus, her hunting parties scoured the lands in the far north hunting for caribou, seals, and great white bears. Her fishermen plied the coastal waters, taking the great serpentine leviathans that chased schools of fish to the north each summer.

  She also commanded scores of miners and workers: smiths to forge weapons, armorers to carve mail from the bones of world wyrms, sorcerers to manufacture goods that could be used as tribute to the empire—cloaks of glory that would let a lich walk in the sun, artificial wings, and wight wombs to shelter and nourish the spirits of the newly dead.

  But though Crull-maldor was Lord of the Northern Wastes, and thus had an exalted title and rank, hers was an appointment that would take her nowhere. She had no opportunity for advancement, no hopes of ever returning to the great fortress at Rugassa. Serving well at her post would earn her no reward. She had been disposed of utterly, and forgotten.

  In more ways than one, she was the living dead.

  Yet always there was the hope that the emperor Zul-torac would fall from grace, and that the great Creator—Despair—would need someone to replace him. Crull-maldor knew that it would happen eventually, and in that moment, if all went well, Despair would remember Crull-maldor’s name. It was only a matter of time, but Crull-maldor lived in hopes of that moment.

  Thus, she did her master’s bidding.

  By night the wyrmlings of her garrison would usher out into the wastes, keeping watch over the ocean shores lest a cohort of humans try to settle. Theirs was a futile watch, for it had been fifty-eight years since a human had been seen.

  By day, while her wyrmlings toiled, Crull-maldor kept her own watch.

  She climbed higher into the air. The seas were glassy calm for as far as the crow’s sharp eyes could perceive.

  Killer whales were spouting as they herded a school of salmon along, and a few gulls rode the calm waters. Crull-maldor spotted a young leviathan undulating over the waves. Nothing else moved.

  There were no humans riding on the waters.

  But the lich had more than one reason for riding this crow. Crull-maldor was seeking to extend her skills, to learn to ride in the minds of creatures perfectly.

  She wanted to learn not only to control others, but to avoid detection while doing it.

  In particular, some who were strong in arcane powers would be able to detect her presence. Her ancient nemesis, the emperor, was always wary, always watching.

  Someday, she thought, I will ride a crow into the southern lands, and there I will spy upon my enemies.

  Each day she risked it. Each day she grew in skill. Yet each day she was rebuffed.

  So now she blanked out her mind, seeking to hide her thoughts, her intent, and concentrated simply on the mechanics of flight: flapping the crow’s wings, breathing steadily, ignoring hunger and thirst.

  More than an hour into the flight Crull-maldor was attacked.

  For those who had the ears to hear, a high-pitched growl of warning, like the snarl of a jaguar, sounded in alarm in the spirit world. At the cry, thousands of other voices rose up, iterating the same warning, as an army of liches went on the defensive. The emperor’s minions struck out blindly, sending thousands of spirit darts that rose up from the southern horizon, each a fiery nimbus that streaked through the sky like ball lightning, hissing and crackling, each discernible only to the eyes of Crull-maldor’s spirit.

  One dart struck, and the crow’s wings cramped. Dazed by the attack, the bird fainted. As the crow plummeted toward the sea, Crull-maldor fought for control, flapping furiously.

  Distantly, Crull-maldor heard Zul-torac’s simpering laugh. The emperor never tired of his petty games.

  The emperor was jealous of Crull-maldor�
��s powers, her ability to “ride” others, to project her thoughts into the minds of lesser creatures. He was also afraid of her.

  Each day, Crull-maldor tested his strength—as she ranged farther and farther across the waters. Each day, she drew a little closer before one of his spies discovered her.

  Crull-maldor fought to still the crow’s wings, let them catch the air. She soared for a moment as she strengthened her tenuous hold upon the bird.

  “Be gone, little Crow Rider,” the emperor whispered to Crull-maldor’s spirit. “Go find yourself a statue to defecate on. You may never return. You may never again lay your eyes upon the mainland.”

  “Every man’s days are numbered, my emperor,” Crull-maldor shot back, “even yours. Especially yours!”

  The wind was wet and heavy under the crow’s wings, making flight a labor. The bird regained consciousness, and began to flap with difficulty as Crull-maldor gave it its head.

  The lich waited to hear more of her old enemy’s banter. Perhaps he would send another hail of spirit missiles, hoping to strike down her mount, hoping that the crow would drown while Crull-maldor’s spirit was still harnessed to the beast. But there was an unaccustomed silence.

  Suddenly the crow spotted something in the heavens: a bright light, like a new moon glowing above.

  Crull-maldor wondered if it was some new form of attack, and the crow slowed on the wing, cocked its head to the left to peer upward, and soared for a moment.

  The orb grew in brilliance and expanded as it rushed toward the earth. The crow’s heart beat wildly, and Crull-maldor loosed her hold enough to let the crow wheel and head inland.

  In seconds the orb filled the heavens, and Crull-maldor gazed up in wonder.

  She saw a world falling toward her, vast and beautiful. Brilliant white clouds swirled over a cerulean sea. There was a vast red continent—a desert, she suspected, and white-capped mountains. Still the world plummeted toward her, growing in her field of view.

  It’s like a falling star, Crull-maldor thought, one that will crush the whole world! What a beautiful way to die.