Chaosbound

by David Farland

  A young man raced past Rain, grabbing her wrist. He pulled her toward the alley, and she resisted. He yanked her so hard that it lifted her from her feet, and he half-dragged her around a corner.

  “Come on!” he said, his voice full of terror. She stumbled and ran, trying to keep up, as he raced across the street, into a stable.

  “This way!” he urged as he pulled her toward some horses. The horses neighed in fear, while a few chickens that had been strutting about squawked and raced under the horses’ feet.

  The young man reached a small ladder that led to a hayloft, ten feet in the air, and shouted, “Up—go up!”

  She climbed the ladder swiftly, found that there was a huge mound of hay, and scrambled to get over it.

  The young man raced up behind her, urged her over the hay, and then pulled the ladder up and set it behind the pile of hay. Then he just lay back for a moment, panting from fear, and tried to still his breathing.

  Rain did the same. Her heart was pounding hard, and it seemed to her that she saw everything in preternatural detail.

  There was little light in the room. Most of it came from a small open door above them, so that sunlight streamed through the gloom. Motes of dust hung in the air, floating upon every breath of wind.

  Aaath Ulber is dead by now, Rain realized, and despair dropped on her with a massive weight.

  That can’t be, she told herself. The Earth King said that he has to help Fallion, he has to help bind the worlds.

  Has he failed already? Did he fail so easily? Was it dumb luck that brought him here?

  “What, what will happen to that giant?” Rain asked.

  She looked at the young man. He had long golden hair with a hint of crimson, almost the shade of cinnabar. His chin was strong, his nose narrow, and his eyes smoldered a deep blue.

  “He’s dead,” the young man whispered, putting a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet. “He’s dead. And anyone who walks the streets now will die with him.”

  “But, but . . .” Rain tried to imagine Aaath Ulber dead. She leaned back in the hay, fear tightening her stomach. Involuntarily, she began to twist the ring on her finger. It was an old habit, each time she felt in danger.

  “You’re from Mystarria,” the young man said. It wasn’t a question. “Did you know that . . . giant?”

  Rain wasn’t adept at lying. She hesitated. The man had saved her, and she hoped that he was an ally.

  Would he turn me over to the wyrmlings if he knew?

  “I didn’t know him,” she said, too late.

  “Your lips lie, but your body tells the truth,” he said. Rain found that she was trembling in fear, and that it was everything she could do to hold back her tears.

  “They knew that you were coming,” the young man said. “For weeks the wyrmlings have been searching for a giant, a man with red hair, a man that they fear.” There were shouts in the street outside, the sound of running feet, and the growl of a wyrmling. A man screamed as the wrymling took him.

  The young man peered over the pile of hay, making sure that no one had entered the stable, and whispered, “There are two wizards with you, yes? We must get word to them, before the wyrmlings find them.”

  Rain shook her head, trying to make sense of this. There was only one wizard in her group. Yet she suspected that he was right. The wyrmlings were looking for them. There were two wizards in Draken’s family, and that was so rare that Rain had never heard the like. “How could the wyrmlings know that we were coming?”

  We told no one, she wanted to say.

  But the young man simply said, “How do they do anything? Their leaders can talk to each other even though they are a thousand miles apart. They have wrapped all of Rofehavan beneath a swirling cloud of darkness, and they send blights to destroy our crops. They know things . . . things that they shouldn’t.” He peered about nervously, obviously distraught at being here. “We will have to keep our heads down.”

  “For how long?” Rain asked. She desperately wanted to get back to Myrrima.

  “As long as it takes—hours at least. The wyrmlings—”

  The clanking of bone armor sounded outside the stable, and for a moment the two fell completely silent. A wyrmling trudged inside, and the horses neighed and stamped nervously at the smell of blood.

  Rain didn’t dare move. She held her breath, heart pounding as if it might burst, and pleaded with the Powers that the wyrmling might leave.

  But the monster plodded through the stable for a moment, then stood below them, sniffing at the loft.

  He’s taken endowments of scent, Rain realized. She trembled all over. She wished that she’d thought to pull some hay over her, perhaps mask the smell of her sweat.

  Shouting arose down the street, a man roaring a battle challenge. “You killed her!” he cried at some wyrmling. “Damn you for that!”

  At the sound of clanging metal, ax on ax, the wyrmling rushed from the stables.

  The young man leapt up and grabbed a beam, pulled himself higher, then peeked out the open window. Stealthily, he peered down one street, then back into the market.

  He let out a sigh of relief, but there was sadness in his voice. “That man buys our lives with his own.” He jumped back down into the hay, nodded toward the market. “Your giant killed two wyrmlings, but they did not take off his head. They always take the heads of those that they kill. . . . Unless I miss my guess, he’s still alive. We must do what we can to save him. But we cannot make a move until the wrymlings have cleared from the streets.”

  Rain shook her head in wonder. Eight weeks ago, she’d wished the man dead. Now she was to be his savior?

  The young man waited for a long moment, then whispered, “My name is Wulfgaard.”

  “That is not a name I have ever heard before,” Rain said. The young man was handsome in his way. He looked to be no more than twenty or so. She wondered if he had been watching her on the street a few minutes ago, but realized that she had seen him: a young man who walked with a hunched back, pulling a game leg, as he hurried to keep up at Aaath Ulber’s back. She’d worried at his motive. She’d thought him perhaps to be a simpleton, awed at the sight of the giant, but she’d also worried that he might have darker designs.

  “It is not the name I was born with. I took it when I joined the Brotherhood of the Wolf.”

  Rain knew of such men, sworn to fight evil no matter how great it might be or where it might rear its ugly head. She knew that he would protect her with his life, if necessary.

  “You were following Aaath Ulber,” she said. “I saw you.” “I knew that he was the one,” Wulfgaard admitted in a whisper. He strained to listen for a moment, as the clacking of armor drew close again. The sounds of battle down the street had gone still. “I knew him as soon as I saw him.” Wulfgaard’s voice became husky with emotion. “I need . . . we all need his help.”

  19

  THE INTERROGATION

  Hope nourishes courage the way that food nourishes the body. Never give your enemy cause to hope, lest he grow the courage to resist you.

  —From the Wyrmling Catechism

  Not all of Crull-maldor’s troops had wyrms in them. Only a dozen of her captains were evil enough to earn the parasites that fed upon their souls.

  So she had strategically stationed these captains across the island. One of them was in Ox Port, and thus he could speak to her across the miles. The captain’s name was Azuk-Tri.

  His mind touched hers but lightly, and she heard his voice as if it was a distant shout. We found him. We found the one!

  Crull-maldor was in the Room of Whispers, attending her daily duties. She was ever vigilant, worried that at any moment an uprising might occur. The humans were restless.

  She whirled at the call, and sent her consciousness across the miles, seizing the captain’s mind.

  Suddenly she saw what he saw, knew what he knew.

  His men were dragging a limp body through the streets by the feet. The man was a giant for a huma
n—a giant with red hair and small nubs of horns upon his plated brow. He was from Caer Luciare, a “true man” as they called themselves.

  Blood covered the man’s face. An ear had been torn off, and both eyes were swollen. He had puncture wounds in his leg from a meat hook, and he struggled mightily to breathe.

  You’ve nearly killed him, Crull-maldor whispered to her captain’s soul.

  He fought like a madman, the captain whispered. He has the berserker’s rage. Never have I seen such a warrior. He killed two of my troops. Even when we had him down, even after we thought him subdued, he rose up and killed our men.

  Crull-maldor was impressed. The emperor would want the berserker’s head.

  But Crull-maldor did not want to give the human to her enemy—yet.

  The berserker has fought well, Crull-maldor mused. And now he was in enemy hands. His deeds are the kind that makes a man a legend.

  Yikkarga will hear of him, Crull-maldor suspected.

  Crull-maldor knew that Yikkarga had bribed some of her troops to be spies. She couldn’t hide the berserker for long.

  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to. Much was at stake. Lord Despair had promised a great deal for Crull-maldor’s service, and she did not want to jeopardize her future.

  But Crull-maldor had her own spies, and she knew that the emperor was still plotting her demise, seeking some way to sabotage her, and eventually replace her. A feud that had lasted centuries was not likely to be set aside now. Indeed, the emperor had more to lose than ever before, and even his servant Yikkarga recognized how high the stakes had become.

  Over the past three weeks, Crull-maldor had learned a great deal about Yikkarga—and the power that preserved him.

  Lord Despair had “chosen” the wyrmling, and in the City of the Dead, Crull-maldor had sought diligently to understand just what that meant.

  She knew now that there was some kind of link between Yikkarga and Lord Despair, a link that warned him when death drew near.

  So she could not kill the wyrmling. She could not take his life directly. But there were things that she could do to sabotage his efforts, and Crullmaldor had the beginnings of a plan.

  So she rode the mind of Azuk-Tri as her wyrmlings dragged the berserker for nearly a mile, until at last they reached their makeshift fortress—a long-house, confiscated from the humans. It was set upon a hill, and made of logs from giant fir trees. Because the previous owners had been rich, the logs were bound in copper, to keep them from taking fire, and the roof was made from fine slate and imported copper shingles that had turned green with age.

  Enormous logs framed the door, and all along the top, antlers of caribou spread wide. At the very center, the antlers of a giant bog elk spread, some twenty feet across. It was an impressive trophy.

  The wyrmlings dragged the human into the house, which was open and spacious. A hearth was banked with huge slabs of carved basalt, taller than a man, while rows of sturdy benches and a table made from slabs of wood filled the great room.

  Crull-maldor whispered to Azuk-Tri, Lend me full use of your mind.

  The captain calmed himself, let his thoughts roam. In that instant, Crull-maldor seized the man, crawling into his skull and taking possession the way that a hermit crab fills a shell.

  It was easy, surprisingly easy—as easy as riding a crow. The feat had not been nearly as easy weeks ago before the great binding, and Crull-maldor found that she liked this man’s mind. It was filled with interesting tidbits of information about this human settlement.

  Crull-maldor ordered her men, “Bind the human to the table.”

  The wyrmlings lifted the man onto a huge table that was made from planks that were six inches thick. The man’s feet were already tied together. Now the wyrmlings used ropes to truss him to the table, and the human groaned in pain, showing the first signs that he might revive.

  When he was secured, Crull-maldor reached down into the captain’s belt, into a compartment in the waistband, and pulled out a harvester spike—an iron spike about six inches long. The spike was rusty at one end, but its tip was black with glandular extracts.

  Crull-maldor rammed it into the human’s leg. Within seconds, the warrior’s muscles spasmed and his eyes flew open.

  “Yaaaaagh!” He screamed a battle challenge and began to struggle to break the ropes that held him to the table.

  Crull-maldor pulled out the spike. The glandular extracts could give a man great strength, but they tended to blank out his mind, free him from all reason.

  “Now, do I have your attention?” Crull-maldor spoke in the human tongue of Caer Luciare, a language that she had mastered more than three hundred years ago.

  The human’s eyes had gone bloodshot in but a few seconds, and he peered about dazedly, straining to see the wyrmlings in the room.

  He’s counting our numbers, Crull-maldor thought, in the hopes of winning a fight.

  “Do I have your attention, human?”

  The man let his head fall back to the table, then lay panting a moment. “Yes.”

  “Why are you here?” Crull-maldor demanded.

  “I am Aaath Ulber, and I’m going to kill you all!” the human raged, straining at his ropes. His back arched off the table, and he jerked his arms mightily. Sweat had beaded upon his brow, and his eyes were filled with desperation. Not fear, Crull-maldor decided, but a desperate need to wage battle.

  Crull-maldor knew that Aaath Ulber spoke the truth. The glandular extracts filled a man with rage, and in such a state, a man would speak the truth boldly, daring his enemies to defy him.

  “Aaath Ulber . . .” Crull-maldor translated, “The Great Berserker?” He would be one of the humans’ darlings. “You killed two of my men today. For that, you must die.”

  Crull-maldor held the thought for a moment. If she did the emperor’s will, she would execute the human now. Yet she could not do it. If this man really posed such a threat to the emperor—well, perhaps he would deliver himself.

  “But I cannot just take your head,” Crull-maldor explained reasonably. “You killed my men in public. Other humans saw what you did. Hope in an enemy is a dangerous thing. We must kill their hope, by executing you . . . in front of them.”

  Aaath Ulber shouted a berserker’s cry full of passion and murder. He strained at his bands, throwing punches at the air, until the ropes around his wrists cut through his flesh and were soaking in blood.

  The lich lord patiently waited for him to calm. It took long minutes before the warrior lay panting and exhausted on the table, sweat staining his shirt, eyes peering up at nothing.

  Now Crull-maldor planted a seed. “You have come a long way,” the lich whispered, “but you have accomplished nothing. Your people at Caer Luciare have all been killed or captured. Emperor Zul-torac has seen to that. The land is covered in darkness, and all of it is under the emperor’s power. The woman you love is no more. Any children that you sired have likely been eaten. Your friends and comrades—both those whom you admired and those whom you held in contempt—are gone forever.

  “There may yet be a few who survive, deep in the dark recesses of Rugassa. Some have been reserved for torture, no doubt. Others have been put to the forcible.

  “So perhaps your woman still lives on. Perhaps your children cry in the night, hoping that you will come.

  “But you cannot save them. To even try is vain. You shall die tonight in front of those you thought to free . . . by the emperor’s command.”

  The berserker Aaath Ulber roared at that, and once again he strained at the cords, his knotted muscles bulging, his face twisted with rage and desperation. Though his wrists were cut deeply, he struggled against the ropes, striking at hallucinatory foes, until the thick wooden slats beneath him cracked under the tremendous stress.

  Aaath Ulber’s eyes were glazed from rage and pain. Speaking to him any longer would accomplish nothing, for he was past hearing.

  Instead, with the fury of a wounded animal he continued to bellow and moan, e
ager to break free from his bonds, hoping to fight his way south.

  In his dreams, Crull-maldor thought, he is already in Rugassa, emptying the dungeons of the emperor.

  Crull-maldor leaned back and smiled in deep satisfaction.

  20

  THE DUEL

  Ah, there is nothing that I enjoy more than the arena, where so many great hearts lie beating upon the floor!

  —The Emperor Zul-torac

  For the first three hours after Aaath Ulber left, Draken managed to keep his composure. A slight wind arose, worrying the sea. Long swells began to rise up and whitecaps slapped the hull, but Myrrima used her powers to keep the fog wrapped around the boat.

  Twice in the morning other vessels drew near, but gave Draken’s ship a wide berth.

  Draken had spent the night guiding the vessel, but he could not sleep, so he stayed topside to peer out into the fog.

  It was autumn, and with the coming of fall the salmon had begun to gather near shore. Draken saw huge ones around the boat, silver in the water, lazing about, finning in slow circles. The sight of them only sharpened his hunger. He’d never liked salmon, but it was better than the rancid bear he’d been eating.

  Myrrima spotted some olive-green kelp floating by, and she used a staff to pull it in, then sat on the railing and began chewing it.

  She offered some to Draken and the others but they all declined. Draken found that salty food only made him thirsty.

  Sage amused herself by singing softly, and for long hours the family waited.

  After four hours, Draken told himself that Aaath Ulber must have stopped at an inn for a drink, as his father was known to do.

  After six hours, his lips drew tight across his teeth with worry. By mid-afternoon, he was sure that there was trouble.

  Of course there is trouble, he told himself.

  “When’s Father coming back?” Sage finally demanded, well into the afternoon.

  Draken was angry by then, angry at himself for letting Rain go into town without him. He felt weak from lack of decent food, and the weakness left his nerves frayed.