Chaosbound (8 page)

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 tonight. whatever 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.”

In a moment he was off, trundling along a winding trail that dipped and rose. The trail was made by game, mostly—wild rangits and hunting cats. But men used it from time to time, too. Several times a week she had seen horsemen up here. During the rainy season, the ridge trail wasn't as muddy as the old river road.

So she watched him trudge away, a lumpy malformed monstrosity fading into the darkness.

I'll follow him to Mystarria, she thought, but if I have my way, I won't be going to fight any wyrmling horde. I'll go to win my husband back. I'll go to find Fallion and plead with him to unbind the worlds.

Rain lay in the deep grass beneath the shadows of the cliff, as silent as the boulders around her. She'd heard Borenson trudging home in the dark, tramping through the dry leaves that she'd swept onto the trail.

She didn't understand everything that the giant had said, but she understood enough. The Borensons would be going away.

Rain chewed her lip, thought about her own family. Her father had killed men for her benefit. He'd stolen and lied to bring her family here, where they might have some hope of living in peace and safety.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to sail back to Mystarria with the Borensons, and she couldn't envision it. It would be a betrayal to her father, to people who had sacrificed everything for her honor.

There is only one thing to do, she decided. I'll have to convince Draken to stay here, with me.

After Borenson left, Myrrima tried to sleep. There was a patch of sandy ground among the rocks, where a little sweet clover grew. Myrrima had gathered a few ferns and laid the leaves out as a cushion. That was all that the family had for a bed, and she huddled with Sage for warmth, their bodies spooned together. The child felt so cold.

Today was supposed to be the High Summer Festival, and because it was high summer, Myrrima didn't feel much need for a blanket. Yet sleep failed her.

The Walkins were all spread out in a separate camp, perhaps a hundred yards up the trail. While their fire died, Myrrima lay like a dazed bird, her mind racing from all that Borenson had told her.

While she rested there, eyes hardly blinking, she saw a girl tiptoeing down the trail, making not a sound. A mouse would have been hard-pressed to walk as quietly.

Rain is coming to see Draken, Myrrima thought. She can't bear to leave him alone.

Somehow, the realization gladdened her. Draken had lost so much already, Myrrima hoped that he would find a lasting love.

A cool wind blew over her, and Myrrima felt a sudden chill. It was cold, so cold.

Just as quickly, she realized that it wasn't the wind. The cold seemed to be inside her—reaching down to the bone. And the young woman coming toward her made too little sound. She was leaping over rocks, marching through deep grass and dry leaves.

Myrrima recognized the young woman now. It was Erin. It was the shade of her daughter, glowing softly, as if with some inner light. Yet her form was translucent.

Myrrima pushed herself up in a sitting position, heart racing. To be touched by a shade might mean her death. Myrrima's every instinct was to run.

Yet she longed to see her child one last time.

“Ware the shade!” someone in the Walkin clan hissed in the distance. It was an ancient warning.

Erin came, passing near Myrrima's bed. Her feet moved as if she was walking, but her body only glided, as if carried on the wind. She was dressed just as she had been in death.

She went past the edge of camp, over to her own still body, and stood for a moment, looking down, regarding it calmly.

Myrrima dared hope that the shade might notice her. Very often, the dead seemed only vaguely aware of the living, so Myrrima didn't expect much. But a loving glance would have warmed Myrrima's heart. A smile of recognition would have been a lifelong treasure.

The spirit knelt above her body, reached down a finger, and stroked her own lifeless chin.

Myrrima found tears streaming down her cheeks; she let out a sob, and hurriedly shook Sage, waking her, so that she too might see her sister one last time.

Then Erin turned and peered straight into Myrrima's eyes. Instantly the child drew close, covering eighty feet in the flutter of a heartbeat, and she did something that no shade on Myrrima's world had ever done before: Erin spoke, her child's voice slicing through the air like a rapier. “What are you doing here, Mother? You should go to the tree.”

Myrrima's throat caught. She was too astonished to speak. But Sage had risen up on one elbow, and she spoke: “What tree?”

Erin looked to Sage. “The Earth King's tree: one of you should go there before night falls again. Before night falls forever.”

A sob escaped Myrrima's throat. She longed to touch her daughter. “I love you.”

Erin smiled. “I know. You mustn't worry. All of the neighbors are here. They're having a wonderful festival!” She pointed east, up toward Mill Creek.

As if carried on the wind, Myrrima suddenly heard the sounds of the fair: a joyful pandemonium. Minstrels strummed lutes and played the pipes and banged on drums. She heard the young men cheer uproariously as a lance cracked in a joust. There were children screaming with wild glee. In all her life, Myrrima had never heard such sounds of joy.