David Farland - Chaosbound

“Fallion Orden still lives,” Sir Borenson countered. “He’s the rightful king. He has returned to Mystarria. I’m sailing back to serve him.”

Baron Walkin peered up at Borenson, eyes gleaming with anger. Draken suddenly realized that his father had challenged a desperate man. The baron had lost everything in the world, and so he had nothing to lose.

Instinctively, Draken pulled Rain back away from the two men.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Baron Walkin said dangerously. “My brother and I risked our lives for that salvage, and my brother almost lost a foot. It’s half ours—at the very least. And I have a right, too. My family is starving. What ever loot me and the boys find, we intend to keep.”

Borenson growled deep in his throat, a warning sound that Draken had only heard from dogs.

Sir Walkin needed no translator. He reached down and drew a dagger from his boot, backed up a step, and took a fighting stance.

Draken studied him. Walkin might have been a fighting man once, but he wasn’t practiced at it.

Borenson gave a fey laugh. “I had almost forgotten how much trouble the in-laws can be. . . .”

Baron Walkin grinned, began to circle to his right, his eyes glittering with bloodlust.

“I give you fair warning, little man,” Borenson said. “You can’t win this fight.”

Walkin grinned, a surprisingly fey smile. “That’s what they all say.”

“I could cut you down faster than you know.”

“You make that sound easy,” Walkin warned.

Walkin feinted, trying to draw Borenson in, searching for an opening.

Borenson laughed grimly. “You can have the crates of linen. Those alone are worth a small fortune.”

The baron shook his head no, eyes glimmering dangerously.

At first Draken had thought that the baron was only posing, that he wouldn’t dare attack.

But now Draken could see Walkin thinking. There was a ship to win, and treasure—enough booty to secure his future in this wilderness. This might be his last chance to make such a boon for himself. If he didn’t take the loot now, he might have to watch his children starve this coming winter.

There were riches worth dying for—or killing for. Walkin imagined that he had no choice but to fight.

What was it that Baron Walkin had said earlier? Draken wondered. “Sometimes killing can be an act of love”? Suddenly Draken realized that the baron was talking from experience. He’d killed to provide for his family before.

“I’m sailing that ship to Mystarria,” Borenson warned. “Any trade goods we find will go to pay for supplies and safe passage through Internook’s waters. If you want, you can have your share after the voyage is done.”

“That’s a fool’s plan,” Walkin said. “I’m not going back to Mystarria. Warlord Bairn has a price on my head.”

So Walkin had decided. He wanted to take it all.

The women in Walkin’s camp stood with open mouths, stunned at this sudden turn.

Myrrima shouted at the baron and Borenson, “Stop it! Both of you stop it right now.” She stepped between them.

But she hadn’t properly gauged the situation. She still hoped that this was some petty squabble. She didn’t realize yet that Walkin had just decided to kill them all. That would be his only choice—to get rid of any witnesses who might tell what he’d done. It wouldn’t be hard to dispose of the bodies. Nearly everyone in Landesfallen was floating up on one beach or another.

Walkin grabbed Myrrima, pulled her in front of him as a shield, expertly shoved a blade against her throat, and warned Borenson, “Drop your weapon!”

Rain screamed, “Father, what are you doing? Let her go!”

Draken released his grip on Rain’s bicep, drawing his own blade. The time for talking was coming to an end, and he knew how to fight. He wasn’t going to try to use the woman that he loved as a shield, so Draken stepped back, lest one of the Walkin men tried to circle behind him.

Borenson smiled grimly. “You see, son, how he repays your hospitality? This man is every bit the brigand I thought that he was.”

“Honor is a luxury that only the rich can easily afford,” Baron Walkin said.

“Father—” Rain tried to argue.

“Stay out of our way!” Walkin growled, but Rain stepped between the two men. It was a courageous thing to do. Or maybe it was foolish.

Borenson still hadn’t drawn his own knife.

Myrrima grabbed the baron’s knife wrist and tried to break away. There was a time when Myrrima had enough endowments to snap the man’s arm, but she’d lost them all years ago, when the warlords of Internook overthrew Mystarria.

Rain lunged, grabbed her father’s wrist, and tried to free Myrrima. In the scuffle the baron’s knife caught Rain on the forearm. Blood gushed.

Some children cried out in alarm while Rain staggered back, put her hand over the gash, and tried to staunch the blood.

Sudden resolution shone in Baron Walkin’s eyes. He decided to kill Myrrima. He grabbed her chin and pulled her head back, exposing her throat.

At the sight, Sir Borenson’s eyes lost focus. His face darkened and contorted in feral rage.

With a snarl the giant lunged so quickly that Draken’s eyes could hardly register the attack. Big men weren’t supposed to be able to move that fast.

No, Draken realized, human beings can’t move that fast!

Borenson grabbed Walkin’s knife wrist. He twisted, as if to disarm the man, but perhaps misjudged his own strength. Walkin’s wrist snapped like a tree limb, a horrifying sound.

Borenson gripped Sir Walkin by the left shoulder and lifted him into the air. He shook the man like a rag doll, whipping him about so hard that it looked as if Walkin’s head might come off. For a full ten seconds Borenson roared, a deep terrifying sound more befitting a lion than a man.

The scene was totally riveting, and time seemed to slow. Borenson roared and roared, staring beyond the baron, while women shouted for him to stop.

The baron shrieked in pain and terror. His eyes grew impossibly wide. Borenson seemed beyond hearing, beyond all restraint. He dug his enormous thumbs into the Baron’s shoulders, plunging them through soft flesh like daggers, gripping the poor man so hard that blood blossomed red on the baron’s tunic.

Then Borenson bellowed and pulled his hands apart, ripping the baron in two.

Blood spattered everywhere, glittering like rubies in the sunlight, and Draken saw the blue-white bones of the baron’s ribs. Half a lung and some intestine spilled from the baron’s ribcage.

Borenson continued to roar as he shook the man, raising him overhead, and at last he hurled Baron Walkin sixty feet—over the cliff.

Walkin hit some rocks with a cracking sound; a second later he splashed into the water.

Borenson whirled on the rest of the Walkin clan, muscles straining, as he roared another challenge.

No one dared move. Borenson stood huffing and panting.

The giant had taken leave of his senses. He glared at the crowd, as if searching for another enemy to rend in two. Gore dripped from his hands.

Instinctively, Bane backed away, as did the other Walkins.

The children shrieked in terror and cringed, gibbering in fear. Rain just stood in shock—both at what her father had done and at Borenson’s response.

Even Draken feared what Borenson would do next.

Then, slowly, Borenson began to come to. He stood peering about at the crowd, his eyes jerking and refusing to focus. He raised his hands, peered at the gore dripping down his arms, and moaned.

Draken could not quite believe it. He could look back now and recognize the instant that his father had lost control. And Draken knew that his father had regained it. But in between, his father had been . . . gone, acting on pure instinct. He wasn’t even a spectator in the battle.