David Farland - Chaosbound

Aaath Ulber wondered at the phrase “shrouds of darkness.” He had never heard of such a thing. “Tell me,” he said, “what has changed in Rofehavan since the binding of the worlds. . . .”

“You don’t know?” Warlord Hrath asked.

“I know that most of Landesfallen sank into the sea on the far side of the world, so I set sail to come here as fast as I could.”

“Toom fell into the sea also,” Warlord Hrath said, “as did Haversind and all of the land along the north coast. But the coastlines of Mystarria were raised, and much that was ocean is now land. Ships that were in the bay ended up on dry land. But here in Internook, the sea level did not alter much.

“When first the binding came, we did not look abroad. There were troubles on our own island, not far from here. A fortress was found, with tunnels that led into the ground, and a single dark tower.

“Women and children that went to explore it never made it out. Good men went to rescue them, and their tale ends the same.

“We sent what runelords we could, but it had been ten years since we’d seen a forcible in our lands. The men who went were not like the runelords of old. Some lacked brawn, some grace. None was hale and well-rounded. Though they had the speed of runelords, they were warriors of unfortunate proportion.

“So they scaled the wyrmling tower, but they did not get far inside, I think. No sooner had they entered than smoke began to issue from every vent in the wyrmling fortress. None of our men escaped.”

“A wyrmling fortress is not something that one assails lightly,” Aaath Ulber said. “The wyrmlings love traps. Even your runelords could not breathe in that oiled air. There are pits and false walls inside a wyrmling lair. The harvesters are present in every stronghold, but they are not the worst of your worries. Wraiths guard it, sorcerers of great power who fend off death and steal the life energy from those that they vanquish. And just as every hive has its queen, at the center of the wyrmling fortress there is a lich lord who can communicate across the leagues with their emperor.”

“By the Powers!” Warlord Hrath growled. “We have no weapons against such monsters.”

“I do,” Myrrima said. “I can enchant your weapons so that they strike down even the most powerful wraith.”

“That is why the wyrmlings fear you,” Warlord Hrath proclaimed. “They fear your coming.”

There was a scraping sound nearby as some of the folks dragged a heavy bench across the floor. Two young men pulled up a hidden door, then went climbing down a ladder into the recesses of some hole.

“Our armory,” Warlord Hrath explained, “hidden where the wyrmlings could not easily find it.” Seconds later, the men began hauling weapons up from the hole. Hrath raised an eyebrow and asked Myrrima, “Will you bless these weapons?”

“Take your weapons to the nearest stream; I’ll do it as soon as I can.”

All around, people were darting about, gathering food and clothes, preparing to flee into the night. Warlord Hrath jutted his chin, and the men began hauling the weapons out—spears, axes, shields.

“What more have you learned of the south?” Myrrima asked.

Warlord Hrath shook his head, as if to warn that he held tragic news. “A few days after the binding, ships began to arrive from the south, our folks coming back from Mystarria. They too had been overtaken by the wyrmlings—and worse things.

“They spoke of changes that occurred during the great binding. Giant men appeared, like yourself, at the Courts of Tide. They warned of dire things to come, but that fool Warlord Bairn made a sport of killing them, in the hopes of placating the wyrmlings and making some sort of compact with them.

“But then a winged woman came and told of mountains of blood metal to the east—”

“Wait,” Aaath Ulber said. “You say that a winged woman came? Was she a normal human, or was she like me, or was she a wyrmling?”

“She was human in every way, but for her crimson wings,” Warlord Hrath said. “She was young, beautiful.”

Aaath Ulber considered this news. The only winged people that he had ever heard of were the wyrmling Seccaths—the greater lords. They wore wings that were constructed by means that no human had ever learned or could duplicate. Humans had sometimes won the wings—by slaughtering their wearer and fitting them to their own backs—but it was a rare occurrence, something that might happen only once every two or three generations.

The wyrmling Seccaths were few in number. They included the three Knights Eternal, a few members of the imperial family, and perhaps half a dozen messengers and scouts that the emperor employed—messengers and scouts who were also brilliant and accomplished warriors.

Who could have killed a Seccath? Aaath Ulber wondered. Few had such prowess in battle.

“This winged woman, did she give a name?” Aaath Ulber asked.

Warlord Hrath’s brow furrowed in concentration and he looked about the crowd for help. “Angdar was there in the city that day. He heard the tale many times in pubs that night from those who saw, and so he knows it better than I. Did the woman give a name?”

Angdar stepped forward, a burly man with a greasy face. “I don’t recall hearing that she gave a first name, but she did a last: Borenson. I remember because I have heard that name in song many a time, and I wondered if she was any relation to the great warrior.”

Aaath Ulber leapt toward Angdar, and felt so grateful that he slapped the man on the back. “My daughter. My daughter is alive. When did this happen?”

“Just before midday, two days after the binding of the worlds.”

Myrrima got choked up and began to sob, as did Draken, and Aaath Ulber just stood and hugged them for a moment.

“Talon?” Myrrima asked. “She has wings? But how?”

Aaath Ulber explained quickly. As he did, Myrrima’s face lit up. It seemed that the fears and worries slid from her countenance, revealing a fierce hope that had been hiding inside her for weeks.

“Talon’s alive,” Myrrima exulted at last. “She didn’t get crushed in the binding.”

Aaath Ulber hugged his wife and son, but he wondered. How had Talon fought off a wyrmling Seccath? How would she have known how to take its wings? If Fallion had gone into the Underworld, how could he have returned two days later?

Some answers were obvious. Talon knew of the hill of blood metal at Caer Luciare. Somehow she had killed a wyrmling Seccath, and the folks there must have shown her how to take its wings.

But that left so many questions unanswered.

“Tell me,” Aaath Ulber asked Angdar, “what precisely did my daughter say—as close as you can? What were her words?”

The burly warrior held his tongue for a moment as he thought. “She’d come for help,” he said. “She warned Warlord Bairn of the wyrmlings, like the others had, and told him of a mountain of blood metal. She wanted help in . . . freeing some men from a wyrmling fortress, two men who were being held captive. . . .”

“Fallion and Jaz!” Draken exulted, and Aaath Ulber’s heart pounded with newfound hope. He did not want to leap to conclusions, but who else could it be?

Myrrima muttered, “The wyrmlings must have learned that Fallion bound the worlds. Let us hope that their awe of him keeps him alive.”

Fifty days in a wyrmling dungeon, Aaath Ulber thought. Few could survive so long. The wyrmlings were not gentle. But then, few men were as durable as Fallion Orden.

Aaath Ulber looked to Angdar. “What did Warlord Bairn answer when my daughter made her request?”

“He asked for the location of the mountain of blood metal. She told him, and then he ordered his archers to open fire upon her. She flew off, I hear, unscathed.”