Chaosbound

by David Farland

  “We both know the truth,” Myrrima said, struggling to be strong, to hide even a hint of the loss she felt. “You have changed in the binding. Though I’ll love you forever, some things are impossible.”

  She could not make love to such a man.

  “You know me,” Borenson said. “I may look like a monster on the outside, but I am the same man who has slept at your side these past twenty years. My love for you—”

  “You have another woman, one who must be sick with grief. Your children must be wondering where you are. . . .”

  Borenson hung his head, reached out and stroked her cheek with one finger.

  He would have to sail back to Rofehavan, she knew. But that was easier said than done. They had no boat. Perhaps they could buy passage on a ship, but they had nothing to buy passage with. Their only shelter for the night was a bed of ferns at the base of a cliff.

  A great feast they’d made in the midafternoon, but by morning all of the sea life would be going to rot.

  Myrrima had to wonder how they’d survive the coming week, much less make it back to Rofehavan.

  She didn’t even want to think about going back.

  Myrrima had always felt so strong, but something was wrong. Her muscles ached as if from fatigue, a weariness that made her fear sleeping, lest she never wake again. To stand or move took immense effort. The numbing weariness wasn’t just upon her, but upon her children and the Walkins, too—seemingly everyone but Borenson.

  “It could be months or years before I make it back to Rofehavan,” Borenson confirmed. “All of Garion’s Port is drowned. A ship might come in time, but even if it does, I may not be able to buy passage. . . .” He took a deep breath, as if to broach a topic that he dared not discuss, and then released it again, his head shaking from side to side.

  All of his old mannerisms are there, Myrrima realized. It is as if my husband is wearing different flesh.

  “Say what is on your mind,” Myrrima begged.

  “I want you and the children to come back to Rofehavan with me,” Borenson said. “I dare not leave you here without food or a home—” Myrrima began to object, for even if she wanted to go back to Rofehavan, finding a ship might be impossible.

  “Hear me out!” Borenson begged. Myrrima fell silent as he struggled for words.

  “I have been thinking,” he said, “for long hours. Not everything is clear to me yet, but much is clear.

  “I believe that Fallion bound two worlds together as an experiment, to see what would happen in such an event, and I believe that his experiment failed.

  “We could be in grave danger, more danger than you—or Fallion—yet know.

  “You wonder why I have joined with my shadow self and you have not? I have an answer: On our former world there were millions and millions of people, strewn all across Rofehavan and Indhopal, Inkarra and Landesfallen. But on the shadow world where I came from, humankind was all but wiped out. There were only forty thousand of us, living in one vast enclave upon a mountain deep within the borders of what you call Mystarria. Our enemies had all but destroyed us.

  “I think that you did not join with your shadow self,” Borenson said softly, “because you had no shadow upon that world to join with.”

  Dead, Myrrima realized. On that world my shadow self was dead.

  It made sense. She felt more dead than alive right now. The strange exhaustion that had come upon her . . .

  “On the shadow world,” Borenson continued, “there are creatures called wyrmlings. They are giants, larger than I am. They’re fierce, and they eat human flesh. They’ve hunted mankind nearly to extinction.”

  “Are there other creatures from that world that we do not have on ours?” Myrrima asked.

  “A few,” Borenson said. “The birds and squirrels are different, as you will see.”

  “Are there other monsters besides wyrmlings—things that we should be warned about?”

  The giant shook his head no. “The wyrmlings,” Borenson continued, “number in the millions. They hide in great tunnels and warrens beneath the ground by day, and only come out to hunt by night. A large wyrmling stands up to nine feet tall and can weigh seven hundred pounds.”

  “So they are like the arr, or like sea apes?” Myrrima asked. The arr was a race of giants that had once lived in the mountains throughout Rofehavan. They were like apes in form, but much larger.

  “They look more like men,” Borenson said. “Legend says that they once were men, but they began to breed themselves for size and strength, just as my people do. In time they changed.”

  Myrrima shook her head. “How can that be?”

  “Are not the beagle and the mastiff both brothers to the wolf?” Borenson asked. “Do not the pony and the warhorse both come from the same stock? It is the same with people. Some say that humans and wyrmlings share common ancestors, but I do not believe it. When you see one, you will know. They have no love or compassion. All that is in them is fierceness and hunger.

  “They live for one reason, hoping for only one reward,” Borenson said, and he paused for a moment, as if unsure is he should speak more, “they hope that their evil deeds will be great enough so that a locus may feed upon their souls.”

  Myrrima gasped. A locus was a parasite, a being that fed upon men’s spirits. Once it attached to a human host, it controlled him. It rode him the way that a man rides a horse, turning him this way and that. A man who had lost his soul to a locus became a crazed thing, ruthless and vile.

  “They want this?” Myrrima asked. It was a horror beyond imagination.

  Borenson frowned, as if searching for the right words. “They have been trained to want it, for generation after generation. They are taught to believe that the soul of a man dies shortly after the death of the body, and that his spirit is like a mist that fades and dissipates. They have been taught to believe that only a locus is immortal, and if it feeds upon them, consumes their spirit, it will live on.”

  Borenson paused. A star shot overhead, and in the distance out among the rocks a herd of rangits suddenly began to bound away, startled by some noise, thumping as their huge bodies landed upon the compact ground. Cicadas were buzzing up among the trees. Myrrima wondered where Draken was, when he would return. The night was half gone, and dawn was mere hours away. She hunched up a little, hugging herself for warmth. It was a summer night, but dampness made it feel cool.

  She sniffed. The Walkins’ fire just up the trail had gone out, leaving only the scent of ash. The night flowers of a nearby bush had opened so that the shadows under a ledge were filled with a wonder: white petals like wild peas that glowed with their own inner light; the shadows were filled with numinous stars.

  A great uneasiness began to assail Myrrima. If what Borenson said was true, then a new horror had arisen in Rofehavan, something so monstrous that it boggled the mind.

  She could not quite fathom it. She could not imagine people engaging in a breeding program that spanned generations. The mind revolted at the thought. One could not help whom one fell in love with. Her son was proof of that. Draken was hardly more than a boy, but he had found this girl Rain, and he wanted to marry her. He seemed totally devoted to her.

  She tried to adjust her thinking, and the dangers presented by the wyrmlings seemed clear.

  Yet Borenson spoke of returning to Rofehavan, and of taking her family back there.

  “You want to go and fight!” she said.

  The giant set his jaw, the way her husband used to do when he was determined upon some course. “I have to go back and fight—and you must come with me!”

  Myrrima wanted to argue against his plan. She’d fought in wars before. She’d fought Raj Ahten’s armies, and had slain reavers in battle. She was the one who had slain a Darkling Glory at Castle Sylvarresta.

  Sir Borenson had been a mighty warrior, as had she. But they’d both lost their endowments long ago.

  “No,” she said. “We’re too old for another war. You once told me yourself that y
ou would never fight again.”

  “We don’t always join the battle,” Borenson said. “Sometimes the battle joins us.”

  “We don’t even know that the wyrmlings are alive,” Myrrima objected.

  “You have sea anemones on the rocks above your head and crabs walking on dry ground,” Borenson said. “How can you doubt that other creatures from my world—the wyrmlings—survived?”

  A new realization struck Myrrima. “You think that the wyrmlings will come here?”

  “Eventually,” Borenson said. “They will come. Right now, it’s nighttime. The wyrmlings’ home is spread across the hills near Mystarria’s old border with Longmot, while fortresses dot the land. The wyrmlings have come out of their lairs for the night—and discovered a new wonder: humans, small folk the size of you and Sage. What do you think those monsters will do with them?”

  The very notion struck Myrrima with horror. Yes, she sympathized with the plight of her people. But she also recognized that there was no saving those folks tonight. whatever happened to them would happen. It would take months for them to travel Rofehavan, even if she decided to go.

  Every instinct warned against it. She was a mother now, with children to protect.

  “I can only hope that the folk of Mystarria will band together, form some sort of resistance.”

  “They might,” Borenson said. “But I don’t know if they stand a chance against the wyrmlings. You see: The magics of the shadow world worked differently from ours. The wyrmling lords are not . . . entirely alive. The wyrmling lords are wights. Their lord, the Dread Emperor Zul-torac, is no more substantial than a mist.”

  Myrrima wondered at this. If wyrmlings were ruled by wraiths . . .

  “We had no magic to fight them,” Borenson said. “The wraiths flee from the sun and the wyrmlings make their home in lightless holes; our men feared to seek out their lairs, for even if by the power of our arms we could hope to win against the wyrmling hordes, we could not fight their dark masters.”

  “Couldn’t you cast enchantments upon your weapons?”

  “There are no water wizards in their world,” Borenson said. “With cold steel we might be able to wound a wight, but that was the best that we could hope for, and even in wounding one, we would most likely lose our own lives.”

  “I see,” Myrrima said. She was a wizardess, Water’s Warrior.

  “We can hike from here down to Garion’s Port,” Borenson said. “There are lots of traders plying the waters this time of summer. One will find us.”

  “Perhaps,” Myrrima said, “but where will they land? Garion’s Port is submerged. All of the landmarks that showed where it was are underwater.”

  “Still, the ships will come,” Borenson said. “With any luck we can hail one, buy passage.”

  “We have no money.”

  “Look at me,” Borenson said. He lifted her chin, forcing her to behold his might. “I can do the work of four men. You can work, and Draken can too. I suspect that we can buy passage with our sweat. Maybe not on the first ship that passes, but eventually. . . .”

  Myrrima wondered. If a ship came from Rofehavan, it would be looking for a port so that it could sell its goods. Its captain would be hoping to take on food and stores, not hire a family of destitute beggars to go limping home after a profitless voyage.

  Still, Borenson voiced his hopes. “This flood may have wrecked the coasts, but ships that were on the high seas will still be intact. With any luck, we can reach Mystarria before the winter storms.”

  “Two months, or three, with any luck,” Myrrima agreed. “It might take that long to hail a passing ship. We’ll have to hope that some captain will have mercy on us.”

  “I did not say that the trip would be easy,” Borenson agreed, “but staying here would be no easier. We have no crops, no land, no seeds or implements to till the ground. Summer is half over. We’ll be eating wild rangit for the winter, you’ll be sewing clothes from burrow-bear skins, using nothing more than a sharp bone for a needle.

  “At least if we reach Rofehavan, we can hope to find a port somewhere. We can live like civilized folk.”

  Myrrima didn’t like feeling cornered. She wanted to make a rational choice, not get bullied into some fool-headed course. “Even if we make it,” Myrrima said, “what do you hope to find? If what you say is true, then all of Rofehavan will be overrun. Here we may struggle to eat, but at least we won’t have to fight hordes of wyrmlings. Our folk haven’t the strength to fight such monsters, not without blood metal.”

  Blood metal was forged to make forcibles, the magical branding irons that Myrrima’s people used to transfer attributes—brawn, grace, speed. Each branding iron had a rune forged upon it that controlled the attribute it could harness. As a vassal was branded, the forcible drew out the desired attribute, so that when the iron next touched a lord, the lord would gain the vassal’s power. The spell lasted so long as both of them remained alive, and the forcible was destroyed in the process.

  Thus a lord who had taken endowments from his vassals became more than a man, for he might have the strength of ten men, the speed of five, the intelligence of three, the sight of five, and so on. Using such implements, Sir Borenson had become one of the greatest warriors of his generation.

  But the blood-metal mines in Kartish had played out ten years back. There were no runelords of great stature anymore.

  “Oh, there will be plenty of blood metal,” Borenson assured Myrrima. “Upon the shadow world, folk had no use for it. Rune magic as we use it was unknown. But there is a large hill near Caer Luciare, a hill riddled with blood metal. And if there is one hill, there may be others.

  “Let us hope that the folk of Rofehavan will put the metal to good use—that by the time we reach those green shores, the wyrmlings are subdued.”

  Myrrima’s mouth dropped. It seemed to her that the world could not get more twisted, more turned upside down.

  She saw clearly now why he wanted her to return to Mystarria: to fight a great war.

  Home, she thought. There is land aplenty back in Mystarria. All we have to do is take it back from the monsters.

  “I’ll come,” Myrrima said, though she could not help but worry.

  Borenson said softly, “Good, I would appreciate it if you would tell the children and the Walkins of our plan. They might take the news better from you.”

  “All right,” Myrrima said. But she couldn’t just leave it at that. “You need to understand: I will enchant weapons for you, but I will not let you take my children into war.”

  Borenson said, “Draken is old enough to make up his own mind. Unless I miss my guess, I can’t talk him out of marrying that slip of a girl, and if he so chooses, you won’t be able to stop him from going to war.”

  He was right, of course. She couldn’t stop Draken, and she wouldn’t stop her husband.

  Borenson peered to the west, filled with nervous energy, as if eager to be on his way across the ocean. He looked off into the distance, where the shadows of trees and brush melded with the shadows of red-rock. “I wonder what is keeping Draken?”

  “Fatigue,” Myrrima guessed. “We’re all so tired. I suspect that they wandered as far as they could, and decided to settle for the night.”

  “I’d better go and find him,” Borenson said, “make sure that he’s okay.”

  “In the dark?”

  “I’ve hunted by starlight all of my life,” Borenson said. “Or at least Aaath Ulber has. I can no longer sleep by night: that’s when the wyrmlings come out.”

  In a moment he was off, trundling along a winding trail that dipped and rose. The trail was made by game, mostly—wild rangits and hunting cats. But men used it from time to time, too. Several times a week she had seen horsemen up here. During the rainy season, the ridge trail wasn’t as muddy as the old river road.

  So she watched him trudge away, a lumpy malformed monstrosity fading into the darkness.

  I’ll follow him to Mystarria, she thought, but if I ha
ve my way, I won’t be going to fight any wyrmling horde. I’ll go to win my husband back. I’ll go to find Fallion and plead with him to unbind the worlds.

  Rain lay in the deep grass beneath the shadows of the cliff, as silent as the boulders around her. She’d heard Borenson trudging home in the dark, tramping through the dry leaves that she’d swept onto the trail.

  She didn’t understand everything that the giant had said, but she understood enough. The Borensons would be going away.

  Rain chewed her lip, thought about her own family. Her father had killed men for her benefit. He’d stolen and lied to bring her family here, where they might have some hope of living in peace and safety.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to sail back to Mystarria with the Borensons, and she couldn’t envision it. It would be a betrayal to her father, to people who had sacrificed everything for her honor.

  There is only one thing to do, she decided. I’ll have to convince Draken to stay here, with me.

  After Borenson left, Myrrima tried to sleep. There was a patch of sandy ground among the rocks, where a little sweet clover grew. Myrrima had gathered a few ferns and laid the leaves out as a cushion. That was all that the family had for a bed, and she huddled with Sage for warmth, their bodies spooned together. The child felt so cold.

  Today was supposed to be the High Summer Festival, and because it was high summer, Myrrima didn’t feel much need for a blanket. Yet sleep failed her.

  The Walkins were all spread out in a separate camp, perhaps a hundred yards up the trail. While their fire died, Myrrima lay like a dazed bird, her mind racing from all that Borenson had told her.

  While she rested there, eyes hardly blinking, she saw a girl tiptoeing down the trail, making not a sound. A mouse would have been hard-pressed to walk as quietly.

  Rain is coming to see Draken, Myrrima thought. She can’t bear to leave him alone.

  Somehow, the realization gladdened her. Draken had lost so much already, Myrrima hoped that he would find a lasting love.

  A cool wind blew over her, and Myrrima felt a sudden chill. It was cold, so cold.