Chaosbound (13 page)

“To battle!” some warlord cheered. “To battle!”

And then just as suddenly as it had come, the vision ended, as if a portcullis gate had slammed down, holding the vision at bay.

Is this a vision of the future? Myrrima wondered. But a certainty filled her.

No, it is a battle happening now, far across the ocean. Dawn had come to her home here in Landesfallen, but night still reigned on the far side of the world. As Borenson had warned, the wyrmlings were greeting their new neighbors.

The vision, the sounds, both seemed to be coming from the water, and that is when Myrrima knew.

She had wondered whether to follow Borenson across the ocean into his mad battle.

But water was calling to her, summoning Myrrima to war.

Borenson will find a ship, Myrrima realized. Water will make a way for us to reach that far shore. My powers there will be needed.

A giant green dragonfly common to the river valley came buzzing over the water nearby, a winged emerald with eyes of onyx. It hovered for a moment, as if gauging her.

Myrrima knelt then at the edge of the old river channel and laved dirty brown water over her arms, then tilted her face upward and let it stream, cold and dead, over her forehead and eyes. Thus she anointed herself for war.

There had been a time in Myrrima's life when she'd made a ritual of washing herself first thing each morning. As a child she'd loved water, whether it was the sweet drops of a summer rain clinging to her eyelashes, or the tinkling of a freshet as it darted among the rocks. It was her love of water that gave her power over it. At the same time, water had power over her, too—enough power so that she often felt pulled by it, and she found herself wanting to go lie in a deep river, so that the water could caress her and surround her and someday carry her out to sea.

Six years back, she had purposely given up the ritual, afraid that if she did not, she would lose herself to water.

But this morning was different. Worries wormed their way through her mind, and she had seldom felt so tired.

So when she reached camp, she found Sage and led her to the nearby stream. It was only a trickle at this time of year. A little water roamed down from the red-rock above. In the winters the rain and snow would seep into the porous sandstone, and for centuries it would percolate down through the rock until it hit a layer of harder shale. Then it would slowly flow out, and thus seeped from a cliff face above. Myrrima was so attuned to water that she could taste it and feel in her heart how long ago it had fallen as rain.

Not much water escaped the rocks, barely enough to wet the ground. But there was a boggy spot where the streamlet stole through the moss and grass.

Wild ferrin and rangits often came to drink here, and so had trampled the grass a bit.

So Myrrima took Sage and with stones and moss they dammed the small stream, so that it began to rise over the course of the morning.

Rain came to help them, bringing some clay that she had found nearby. As they padded clay between the stones of the dam, Myrrima told the young women of Borenson's plan to return to Mystarria.

“It may be a dangerous journey,” Myrrima said. “I can understand why you would not want to go. I hesitate to ask you, Sage. Landesfallen has been your home for so long, I will not force you to come.”

“I don't remember Mystarria,” Sage said. “Draken sometimes talks about the vast castle we lived in, all white, with its soaring spires and grand hallways.”

“It wasn't grand,” Myrrima said. “I suppose it must have seemed so to a tot like him. Castle Coorm was small, a queen's castle, set in the high hills where the air was cool and crisp during the muggy days of summer. It was a place to retreat, not a seat of power.”

“I should like to see it,” Sage said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

“Much has changed in Mystarria, you understand?” Myrrima said. “It's not likely that we'll ever live in a castle again.”

Rain had just brought some mud, and she halted at the mention of Mystarria, her muscles tightening in fear. The girl knew how much the place had changed far more than Myrrima did.

“I understand,” Sage said.

“I don't think that you do,” Rain told them. “When we left last year, the place was in turmoil. There is no peace in that land, and I think that there never shall be again. The warlords of Internook have been harsh masters, harsher than you know. When my father fled the land, he left a prosperous barony. But months later we heard that all of the people in the barony—women, children, babes—were gone. One morning the warlord's soldiers came and marched them all into the forests, and none came back. But that evening, wagons began to arrive filled with settlers who had shipped in from Internook, and the houses in the cities were filled, and farmers came to reap crops that they had not sown.

“The warlord Grunswallen had sold our lands months before his soldiers began the extermination. My father had sensed that it was near. He said that he'd felt it coming for days and weeks. He'd seen it in the superior smirks that the Internookers gave us, in the way that they heaped abuse on our people. My family fled just two days before the cleansing occurred. . . . I thank the Powers that we were able to exact a small token
of vengeance against that pig Grunswallen. The Internookers wear hides made of pigskin because they are pigs in human form.”

Myrrima peered up at Rain; she worried that the young woman would turn Sage away from the course.

Perhaps that would be best, Myrrima thought. I don't want to take Sage into such unstable lands. I don't want to make life-and-death decisions for my child.

“There are other dangers, too,” Rain said. “The mountains and woods are full of strengi-saats, monsters that hunt for young women so that they can lay their eggs in the women's wombs. You cannot go out by night. The soldiers do a fair job of keeping them away from the towns and the open fields, but each year the strengi-saats' numbers grow, the monsters range closer into the heartland, and the nights grow more dangerous.”

Sage looked to Rain. “You don't think I should go?”

Rain stammered, “No—Perhaps there is no right choice. But I think that if you go to Mystarria, you should know what you're up against.

“And since the change in the world—who knows what things will be like in Mystarria now?” Rain hesitated and then explained to Myrrima: “I heard your husband talking last night about creatures called
wyrmlings
. . . .”

Myrrima's heart skipped. If the girl had heard about the wyrmlings, then she'd heard much that Myrrima would wish to keep secret. “What else did you hear?”

“I know that your son Fallion is responsible for this . . .
change
.” Rain hesitated, her keen green eyes studying Myrrima for a sign of reaction. “But I don't understand it all. Draken told me that his brothers and sisters had all gone back to Mystarria; I'd already known that Fallion was a flameweaver, but I've never heard of a flameweaver who had powers like this.” She shrugged and swept her arms wide, pointing to a ledge nearby where an outcrop of rock was still covered in coral.

“Who else have you told?” Myrrima asked.

Rain had been keeping her voice soft, and she glanced over the deep grass to where the folks in her own camp were beginning to stir. “No one. Nor shall I tell. I think it is best if no one here ever learns who is responsible for this . . . debacle.”

Myrrima found a knot of fear coiling in her stomach. She was worried for Fallion and Talon, for all of her children. What would people think if they knew? Half of Landesfallen had sunk into the sea, millions of people were dead. Certainly, one of their kin would seek vengeance against Fallion, if they knew what he had done.

Yet Myrrima's worries for her children went far beyond that. Fallion had planned to go deep into the Underworld, to the Seals of Creation, to cast his spell.

With all that had happened, Myrrima could not help but fear for Fallion's safety. She worried that the tunnels he'd entered had collapsed. Even if the structures had survived, they had been dug by reavers, and it was well known that every time a volcano blew or a large earthquake struck, the reavers grew angry and were likely to attack during the aftermath, much like hornets whose nests have been stirred up.

Fallion had gone to heal the world; Myrrima felt almost certain that he had paid for his trouble with his life. No good deed ever goes unpunished.

Sage had listened to Myrrima's words, to Rain's warnings. Now she peered up at her mother with blue eyes blazing. She had deep red hair and a face full of freckles. “I want to go with you. There's nothing holding me here. Everyone that I knew is gone. I want to find Talon and Fallion, make sure that they are all right. . . .”

Myrrima looked to Rain. “And you? Will you come with us?”

Rain hesitated. “I don't think so. I don't see why you have to go looking for trouble. If the wyrmlings come, we can fight them on our own ground.”

Myrrima knew that Rain would try to convince Draken to stay here with her. Myrrima didn't know how to feel about that—whether to be angry or to hope that she succeeded.

So Myrrima hummed to herself until the shallow pool filled to a depth of a few inches. The Walkin children came by and all stood peering into the water eagerly, until Myrrima began to draw runes of healing and refreshment upon the water.

She bathed then, laving the clean water up over her own head, letting
it wash over and through her. She peered up, and wished that she knew what the best course to follow might be. Dare she really take the children back to Mystarria, expose them to such dangers? Or could she possibly stay here? It would be easy to enchant some weapons, cast spells upon them that would vanquish unclean spirits. She could send them with Borenson.

When she finished her mind felt cleared of all doubt. She had to go with Borenson. She would need to enchant weapons not for one man, or even a hundred, but perhaps for thousands.

More importantly, she felt renewed, filled with energy. The bath seemed to wash away the curse that had sapped her strength.

So she bathed Sage now. As she laved the water over the girl, she asked her master for a small blessing upon Sage: “May the stream strengthen you. May the moisture renew you. May Water make you its own.”

As the last handful of water streamed down Sage's face, she gasped as if in relief, and then broke into tears of gratitude for what her mother had done.

She reached up and began to wipe the tears away, but Myrrima pulled her hand back. “Such tears should be given back to the stream,” she said.

So Sage stood there in the stream, and let her tears fall into its still waters.

Afterward, Myrrima invited Rain into the pool, and offered to repeat the cleansing ceremony with each of the Walkin women and children.

For two long hours Myrrima stood in her blue traveling robes, her long dark hair dangling over one shoulder. Between each ceremony she would have to stoop and trace runes of cleansing and healing on the surface of the pool while water-skippers danced around her fingers.

One by one she washed everyone in the group.

Those children who had been cleansed instantly began darting around camp, their lethargy much diminished, while the womenfolk seemed at last to come alive.

Noon had just passed and Myrrima was thinking about lunch when a call went up from the Walkin children.

“There's a ship! There's a ship in the channel!”

The sighting aroused a bit of excitement, and the Walkin children raced to the lip of the cliff and peered down into the polluted water below.

Myrrima had been trying to keep the children away from the old river channel all day, afraid of what they might see floating past. But now the whole Walkin clan stood on the shore and waved.

“We're rescued, Mother!” Sage was calling.

Myrrima walked to the bank and stood peering down.

It wasn't one boat—it was nine, or one boat and eight rafts. They were paddling over the water, following the course seaward.

Three dozen men manned the vessels. “Halloo!” they called, waving bandanas and hats.

Myrrima drew closer, but one of the Walkin women strode forward and acted as voice.

“Need help?” one of the men called from a boat. “We're from Fossil!” another shouted from a raft. “Is anyone injured?” a third cried.

The men paddled, doing their best to row the clumsy vessels in unison, and a fine tall man with a blunt face and long brown hair hanging free stood up in the boat.

“We've got a child dead,” the Walkin woman, Greta, shouted. “She's beyond anyone's help.”

“Do you need food or supplies?” the tall man asked.

“We got away with nothing more than what's on our backs,” Greta said. “We had fish and crabs for dinner last night, but we daren't eat it today.”

The boat floated near and finally bumped against the shore not far below them. “Where are your menfolk?” the leader called.

“They went west, searching for survivors,” Myrrima answered.

The leader gave them a suspicious look. Then he put on a pleasant face and called up, “I'm Mayor Threngell, from Fossil. We don't have much in the way of supplies, but you're welcome in our village. There's food and shelter for any that need it.”

He searched the faces of the Walkins as if looking for someone familiar. “Are you locals?”

The Walkins hardly dared admit that they were squatters. “New to the area,” one of them answered. “We're looking to homestead.”

Myrrima had met Mayor Threngell two years back at the autumn Harvest Festival; she recognized him now. “I'm local,” she said. “Borenson's the name. Our farm was destroyed in the flood.”

The mayor grunted, gave her a cordial nod. “Go east, not twenty miles. It's not an easy walk, but you should make it. You'll find food and shelter there,” he affirmed. But the welcome in his voice had all gone cold, as if he wasn't sure that he wanted to feed squatters. “Tell your men when they get back. Tell them that there is to be no looting of the dead, no salvage operations. This land is under martial law.”