David Farland - Chaosbound

For the past three years, Rain had spent her days and nights in hiding, as much as she could.

Townsfolk died, driven to starvation, and each time some land opened up, a family of barbarians from Internook would show up and lay claim to it.

Soon, neighbors were spying upon neighbors, telling which family might be hiding a cow in the woods or a daughter in the cellar, so that the levies would be paid.

As a baron, Owen Walkin had commanded respect among his people, but the time had finally come when hope failed him, and he’d taken his family and run off, crossing through cities and countryside by night, until they reached the land of Toom.

He’d fled just in time, as Rain told it, for two days later the entire barony was destroyed, its citizens forced to march into the forest and never return.

Rain finally answered, “We had it hard enough escaping from Mystarria the first time. I’m not eager to go back. I don’t think I could ever go back. Stay here with me—please.”

Her voice had become soft and urgent at the last, and she begged him to stay with her eyes more than with her words. She clutched his hands, as if begging him to stay forever.

Dare I stay? he wondered. His mother and father were going away, going to fight. He couldn’t imagine leaving them to their own devices.

A moment later, Borenson came lumbering up the cliff and stood for a moment. He seemed to weave on his feet, and Draken realized that he had to be exhausted. As far as he could tell, his father had gotten no sleep since yesterday morning.

But the giant stood blinking his bloodshot eyes and peering at Rain and Draken as if judging them. At last he sauntered over and said to Rain, “I want to apologize for my harsh words yesterday. I . . . was distraught.”

Rain put her hands on her hips and gave him an appraising look. “Yesterday when you were a man, you insulted me. Today when you’re a monster, you ask forgiveness. I think I like the monster better.”

Borenson guffawed and broke into a genuine smile. “Then you would be the first.”

A clumsy moment followed. Rain looked down at the ground, gathered her courage, and said, “You need to know something. I’m in love with your son, and he loves me. We didn’t set out for it to happen. It just did. He was kind to my family, and I saw his goodness. . . . Anyway, I begged him to tell you, but he was afraid of what you would think. He was hoping that we might find some land nearby, get settled, and then introduce us. We have not done anything unseemly, except . . .”

Borenson’s brow furrowed, as if he expected her to admit to some infidelity. “Except what?”

“Except that we hid on your land. My father and brother found some odd jobs with your neighbors. We didn’t dare speak to you. We were ashamed that we had fallen too far. . . .”

Draken knew that his father was not a man to stand on station. He had been born a butcher’s son, and had made himself the first knight of the realm.

Borenson finally reached down and hugged her briefly. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you,” she said. She pulled away, blinked a tear from her eye, and studied his face.

“Myrrima says that you’re going back to Mystarria. She’s invited all of us to come along.”

“Will you be joining us?” Borenson asked.

Rain frowned, looked to Draken, and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. The family is against it. There is not much for us here, but if what you say is right, by going back to Mystarria we would be marching out of the rain to get into the storm. . . .”

Draken squeezed her hand, begging her to be discreet. He wanted to talk to his father at length before making a determination.

“You wouldn’t have to go all the way to Mystarria,” Borenson suggested. “We’ll make stops along the way. There is good land in Toom to be had.”

“There was ten years ago,” Rain objected, “but refugees took it. ‘There’s plenty of good ground left,’ they say, ‘if you’d like to grow rocks.’ But since everyone in Toom has more than they want, rocks are awfully hard to sell.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that you stay here in Landesfallen,” Borenson said. “There is food to be had, if you work hard enough. But the coastal cities are all gone, and with them went the smithies, the chandlers, the glassblowers, and so on. You’ll find yourselves lacking for comfort.”

“My mother has considered that, and she says that while ‘We may find ourselves wanting for some necessities, there is one thing that we will have in abundance here—peace.’ ”

“Perhaps,” Borenson agreed, “for a time. But who knows how long it will last? The wyrmlings will come eventually, perhaps in an hour or a manner that you are not prepared for. I prefer to take matters into my own hands.”

Rain peered up at him, gauging his size. “Do you really think that there’s blood metal to be had in Mystarria?”

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

She nodded. “You’d make a fearsome lord.”

It was true, Draken thought. Borenson looked strong now, terrifying.

What’s more, Draken realized, his father knew the secret fighting styles of the assassins from Indhopal, and had mastered the weapons of Inkarra. He’d been a strategist for kings.

Sir Borenson had gained fighting skills that the wyrmlings had never seen before. With his size, Draken imagined that his father would be a fearsome opponent.

Rain turned to Draken. “So, what all did you find on your trip?”

“Two casks of ale, four barrels of molasses, a barrel of rice, a barrel of lamp oil, and some crates. The crates were packed . . . with women’s linen undergarments.”

Rain laughed. “Well, then we shan’t want for underwear.”

Draken knelt on the ground and pulled out a small pouch, dropping some jewelry into his hand. “I also got this,” he whispered. There were two rings, one all of gold and one with a ruby. There was also a silver necklace and a couple of coins—steel eagles out of Rofehavan. “I got us wedding rings!”

Borenson bit his lower lip, peered down at the rings disparagingly. “Put them up, lad. No sense in letting the children see.”

The blood rose on the back of Draken’s neck. He’d taken salvage from the dead, and now his father was embarrassed by it.

But at that moment, Baron Walkin came into the camp and dumped the contents of his own coin purse onto the ground, spilling out dozens of rings and coins.

“Have a look at this!” he called to his wife and children. “Look what the men brought home. There’s enough gold and coin here to buy a small farm!”

Walkin’s brother Bane stood precariously above the loot on his injured ankle, beaming, like a boy who has just brought his first stag home from the hunt.

Borenson peered at the baron in surprise, then glanced back at Draken. He suddenly saw the way of it. He’d sent Draken out to search for food and supplies, but the Walkins had spent the night looting dead bodies. Draken didn’t tell what had happened; Borenson simply saw the shame burning in his face.

What’s more, the Walkins had made a race of it—looting the bodies before Draken could reach them.

An unholy rage suddenly welled up in Borenson, his face flushing. He strode forward and stepped on the Walkins’ loot. “This isn’t yours,” he said. “The people of Mystarria—that you once swore to serve—need it. In the name of the king, I lay hold of it.”

Walkin’s fist clenched in anger, and he squatted with back bent, but tried to restrain himself.

“You have no right to speak for the king,” Owen Walkin growled. “Nor for Mystarria. There is no king in Mystarria anymore. There is no Mystarria—just a rotting carcass being carved up by scavengers.”