David Farland - Chaosbound

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 you 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 to night. What ever 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.”