David Farland - Chaosbound

Borenson loped for seventeen miles in the darkness before he found Draken. The lad was with Baron Walkin and one of his brothers.

The giant reached them just at the crack of dawn, as the sun rose up in the east as pretty as a rose. Wrens flitted about in the brush beside the water, while borrowbirds whistled their strange ululating calls from the white gum trees.

The three had stopped at a huge bend in the channel where the ruins of a ship had been cast up among the dead trees and bracken. The ship must have been taking on stores at Garion’s Port. The hull was more than breached—the whole ship had cracked in half. The men had begun salvage efforts, pulling a few casks and crates from the water around the wreckage. But when they had grown tired, they had then set camp by the shore.

Borenson found Draken groggily nursing a small fire while Baron Walkin peered out into the water and his brother slept beneath a bit of tarp. Borenson jutted his chin toward the wreck and asked Draken, “What’s the report?”

“The only people that we found were floaters. Other than that, all we really found was this wreck.”

Borenson was saddened to hear that there were no survivors, but he hadn’t expected better news. So his mind turned to more immediate concerns. “Anything of value on it?”

“Not much. There were some casks of ale floating about, and bales of linen. We found a few empty barrels floating high. We got those. As for the ship, we thought that the brass fittings on the masts and whatnot might be of worth. But after our long walk, we grew too tired to try to haul it all home. We thought that we might use the empty barrels and some other flotsam to make a raft, and then pole it upstream with the tide.”

Borenson walked over to Baron Walkin to get a better view of the wreck. Dead fish floated in the still water beside the ship’s hull, their white bellies distended and bloating. After a moment, Borenson recognized that something large and hairy floating against the wreck was a goat.

“Do you think we could use the wood from the ship to make a smaller vessel?” Borenson asked.

Baron Walkin peered up at him curiously. “There’s not enough left of it, even if we had the right tools. Besides, if we did manage to get something floating, where would you sail to?”

“Haven’t decided,” Borenson averred.

“I’m afraid there’s not much here to salvage,” Baron Walkin said. “There are a few more casks floating inside the wreck. If you dive up into it, you can see them, but it’s hard work, and risky, trying to get them out. Broken beams, shifting tides. A man takes his life into his hands every time he dives into that mess.”

“Have you seen any other wrecks?” Borenson asked, “More lumber?”

“About two miles farther on the sea meets the land,” Baron Walkin said. “That’s as far as we got. The whole coast is submerged.”

In his mind’s eye Borenson consulted a map. The Hacker River wound through the hills here, but gently turned. That meant that most of the wreckage from the tidal wave should wash up south of the new beachfront—perhaps only five or six miles to his south.

“You didn’t try searching for Garion’s Port?”

“We were too tired,” Draken said, stepping up beside the two. “The land is pretty rugged. The water just sort of comes in and surrounds the trees, and the rocks are something terrible.”

Borenson bit his lip. Draken looked done-in, too tired to go for a rigorous hike. But Borenson felt optimistic. He’d searched in vain through the night for survivors. The tidal wave had just been too brutal, but he hoped to find a couple more wrecks like this one—perhaps with enough material to patch together a real ship.

“You gents see if you can get those barrels pulled out by noon,” he said. “I’m going to go down the coast a bit to see what I can see. . . .”

Baron Walkin peered up at Borenson, gave him a warning look. “Don’t order me about,” he said. “I’m not your manservant. I’m not even your friend. My title—such as it is—is every bit as vaunted as your own.”

Walkin wasn’t a big man. Years of hard work and little food had robbed the muscle from his frame, and Borenson had a hard time trying to see him as anything more than a starveling. But the baron held himself proudly in the manner of the noble-born.

But nobility was a questionable thing. Sir Borenson had made himself a noble. He had won his title through his own deeds, while Owen Walkin had gained his title by birthright. Such men weren’t always as valiant or upright as their progenitors.

This man believes that I owe him an apology, Borenson realized, and perhaps he should have one. After all, our children do want to marry.

“Forgive me,” Borenson said. “If anything, your title is of more worth than mine, for yours was a prosperous barony, whereas I was made lord of a swamp—one where the midges were as large as sparrows and the mosquitoes often carried off lambs whole.”

Baron Walkin laughed at that, then eyed Borenson for one long moment, as if trying to decide whether Borenson was sincere, and at last stuck out his hand.

They clasped wrists and shook, as befitted lords of Mystarria. “I’ll forgive your insults, if you’ll forgive my children for eating your cherries.”

“I’d say we’re even,” Borenson laughed, and the baron guffawed.

With that, Borenson went striding off.

Draken watched the giant lumber away, and fought down a knot of anger. In the past few weeks, he had gotten to know Baron Walkin well, and he liked him. Walkin was a wise man, hospitable. It was true that the family had fallen on hard times, and Draken pitied the family. But Walkin had a way of looking into a man’s eye and recognizing his mood that seemed almost mystical, and though he had little in the way of worldly goods, he was as generous as he could be.

“What do you think he’s after?” Draken asked as the giant loped away, following an old rangit trail.

“He’s heading for Rofehavan, unless I miss my guess,” Walkin said, then peered at Draken meaningfully. “You’ll be welcome to stay and make your home with us, if you prefer.”

Draken thought for a long moment. He was in love with Rain, that much he knew. In the past six weeks, he hadn’t had a day when he’d gone without seeing her. Already he missed the touch of her skin, and he longed to kiss her.

But he was torn. He had already guessed what had happened. Fallion had bound two worlds. Draken didn’t know what that meant precisely. He didn’t know why his father had changed, but he knew that something was terribly wrong. The binding should not have brought such a mess.

Draken had been trained from childhood to be a soldier. He knew how to keep secrets. And Fallion’s whereabouts and mission were a family secret that he hadn’t even shared with Rain. So he had to go on pretending that he didn’t know what was wrong with their world.

But he was worried for Fallion, and he felt torn between the desire to go to Rofehavan and learn what had happened and to stay here with Rain.

“I don’t know what to do,” Draken admitted.

“Let your heart guide you,” Baron Walkin suggested.

Draken thought for a long minute. “I want to stay with you, then.”

The baron waited and asked, “Why?”

Draken tried to find the right words. “I can’t abide the way my father spoke to Rain. He owes her an apology, but he’ll never offer it. He won’t apologize to a girl. He’s a hard man. All that he ever taught me was how to kill. That’s all that he knows how to do. He knows nothing of kindness, or love.”

“He taught you how to raise crops, didn’t he? How to milk a cow? It seems to me that he taught you more than war.”