Chaos Unleashed (10 page)

Sometimes she would be very young—six or maybe seven. Still of an age when adult authority was accepted without question. Other times she would be older; on the cusp of womanhood, her mind filled with the questions and insecurities every teenager faced. In every case, however, the wizard’s goal was the same: to convince Cassandra’s subconscious that she was his apprentice and he her mentor.

Typically, it would take some time before Cassandra was able to remember her true identity and shake off the ruse—time the wizard used to force his knowledge into her mind, bit by bit. And each time she rejected him, he would threaten, cajole, or tempt her in a futile but relentless effort to win her over.

I can teach you to control the power of the Crown so that it won’t harm anybody else.

If you don’t learn these lessons, you will be defenseless the next time the Slayer’s Minions find you.

Listen to me and you can become a God!

Ultimately, however, Rexol’s desperate ploys held no sway over her. The Order had trained her too well; her mind was too disciplined to ever embrace what he was trying to tell her.

You know that’s not true. Like it or not, you’re beginning to understand the true nature of Chaos rather than the myths and lies taught to you by the Order.

This time there was something different about the dream. Rexol wasn’t projecting an image of her younger self. He didn’t seem to be projecting any kind of image at all—it felt as if she were standing in a completely dark room.

This dream is not of my doing.

She could still feel the wizard’s presence, but she sensed him only as the incorporeal voice inside her head rather than the stern and commanding authority figure he typically portrayed himself as.

The room is dark, but you have the ability to see what is in here…if you dare.

Cassandra concentrated, and details came into focus as her Sight pierced the blackness. As the picture emerged, a shudder of revulsion ran down her spine.

She was in a cellar, empty save for three figures. Two were human, or had been once—a man and a woman. Their bodies were twisted and mangled, their bones broken and their flesh ripped and torn. They had been positioned on either side of the room, their figures prone on the earthen floor, their broken limbs splayed out at forty-five-degree angles.

Their stomachs were split open, exposing their entrails. The blood from their wounds had been used to trace a wet circle around them, and from the circle extended five sharply pointed triangles, one each aligned with their arms, legs, and head.

They’re still alive,
Rexol noted.

To her horror, Cassandra saw he was right. Though motionless and silent, the eyes of both figures still flickered from side to side and the muscles of their faces twitched and shuddered.

Blood magic,
Rexol explained.
An ancient practice even I found too abhorrent to study in detail.

Repulsed, Cassandra wrenched her focus from the helpless suffering of the victims and focused on the other figure. It was pacing back and forth anxiously between the man and the woman, making a final check on the preparations of his spell. She sensed it wasn’t human, but Cassandra’s Sight couldn’t make out any specific details. It was as if the being was shrouded in a veil of blue-green mist that kept it hidden.

It’s using Chaos to mask its true form,
Rexol noted.
It is a monster that does not wish to be seen.

Cassandra concentrated, trying to peer through the fog. For a moment the vapors seemed to thin, and the figure suddenly stopped. Its head snapped quickly from side to side, scanning the room.

It senses your presence.

The figure let loose a low, angry hiss, then clenched its hands into fists and thrust them toward the ground. The image around Cassandra began to fade, the walls and bodies of the cellar slipping away as the monster tried to push her away.

It’s fighting you!
Rexol told her.
Remember your lessons! Fight back! Draw upon the Crown!

She was loath to embrace Rexol’s teachings, but she knew the gruesome spectacle was too important not to see. Ignoring her reservations, Cassandra did as she was told, reaching out with her mind to the Talisman that lay on the nightstand beside her bed in the world outside this vision.

The room came into focus again. But this time Cassandra took care to mask her presence from the fog-shrouded figure.

Clever,
Rexol said.
Let it think it’s won.

She wasn’t exactly certain how she made herself vanish. In some ways she was mimicking what she sensed in the mists of the creature she was spying on though she had instinctively altered aspects of the spell to render herself completely invisible.

This is what you’ve learned from all my lessons and exercises,
Rexol crowed.
A true mage has an instinctive understanding of how to manipulate Chaos to his or her will.

Cassandra was too focused on the scene before her to protest that she wasn’t, and never would be, any kind of wizard.

Working carefully, she called upon the power of the nearby Crown to enhance her vision once again. This time the figure didn’t react as the concealing mists were peeled away.

The monster revealed was clearly not of the mortal world, though in dim light and at a distance it might have been able to pass itself off as one of the Danaan. It was tall and thin. Its fingers were disproportionately long, and they were tipped by hard, pointed yellow nails that looked as deadly as any tiger’s claws. Its too-narrow skull was hairless, and its ears and nose were nothing but small, sunken pits in its head. Its slitted eyes glowed faintly with power, and its small mouth was filled with fangs, giving its features an overall batlike appearance.

But it wasn’t just the physical appearance that came into focus. She also got a brief glimpse into its mind—a dark cesspool of hate, cruelty, and contempt. This creature lived only to make others suffer. Utterly selfish, it preyed on the weak and vulnerable while bowing down to the strong even as it schemed betrayal.

It calls itself Orath,
Rexol said, and Cassandra realized that whatever she saw, the wizard did, too.
Another of the Slayer’s Minions.

Orath was no longer pacing. Now it stood between the two helpless humans, arms raised above its head. Its face and hands were streaked with fresh blood from its still-living victims. Its voice was whispering a low, sibilant chant, and Cassandra could feel it gathering Chaos—somehow drawing it out of the man and woman on either side of him.

Chaos is the source of all things: life, death, creation, and destruction,
Rexol reminded her.
Even those who have no ability to call on magic still possess a fundamental spark of power.

Cassandra had no guess as to what the purpose of the ritual might be, but she knew she had to stop it. She reached out to the Talisman again, drawing Chaos into her. She let it build for several seconds, until the power became too much for her to contain. And then she released it in a sudden burst, directing it at Orath.

Nothing happened.

You are only an observer of this scene,
Rexol told her.
You cannot stop it. Did the
Order
teach its Prophets nothing?

The monster’s chant became louder, and Cassandra could see thin wisps of green smoke curling up from the gaping wounds in the victims’ stomachs. If they hadn’t been paralyzed by Chaos, their screams would have echoed off the cellar walls. As it was, Cassandra could still sense their suffering as Chaos poured into them, burning them alive from the inside out.

Is this really so different from what the Order does to heretics?
Rexol demanded.

Cassandra ignored him, her attention focused entirely on the spell before her. Maybe Rexol was right; maybe she couldn’t stop it. But she had to watch. At the very least, she might learn what the creature was doing.

More green smoke curled up from the bellies of the humans, thick enough to coalesce into a large cloud in the center of the room.

Orath slowly lowered its arms, then brought its hands together in front of its chest, extending its arms. Its long fingers pressed together, forming a triangle with its thumbs as the base.

Through the gap, Cassandra caught a glimpse of the Burning Sea for the first time—an infinite, untamed ocean of blue fire. A deafening roar erupted from the tiny portal Orath had opened, the sound shaking the cellar so hard that bits of dirt began to shake loose from the walls. Heat poured through, so intense it made the Minion gasp and stagger back. Its victims began to buck and thrash, the spell keeping them frozen, unable to withstand the raw power rushing through them.

Bright blue flames leapt from Orath’s hands and began to dance about the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. Protected by the sacrificial offerings, the Minion seemed unharmed by the fire, though the skin of its victims began to blister and bubble.

The noise had become so loud it was difficult for Cassandra to think. Even though she wasn’t really there, Cassandra felt the Chaos fire searing her skin and singeing her hair. The unbridled fury of the Burning Sea pummeled her awareness with heat and sound, overwhelming her.

Pull back!
Rexol shouted, his voice nearly lost in the swirling madness.
Pull back now!

Cassandra snapped her head to the side and let loose a primal scream, severing the clairvoyant connection with Orath’s ritual. Her eyes snapped open and her Sight came crashing in to reveal she was still in her bed at the back of Methodis’s shop.

An instant later the little doctor came rushing in, drawn by her cry. He stopped and his eyes went wide, and Cassandra realized her skin was covered with burns and blisters from the heat.

How are you going to explain this?
Rexol wondered, his tone almost mocking.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to. At least not yet.

“I have a salve that will help those burns,” the doctor said, regaining his composure. When he turned to leave, however, it seemed to Cassandra he was moving a little more quickly than normal.

“Daemron and his Minions have to be stopped,” she whispered aloud, still partially in shock as her memory replayed all the horrors of what she had witnessed.

You can stop them,
Rexol promised.
If you let me teach you.

Cassandra hesitated. Her entire life she’d been warned about the dangers of Chaos. She had dedicated herself to defending the mortal world against it. Embracing Rexol’s teachings would be a rejection of everything she believed in. And she’d already betrayed the Order once.

You were only a child when they stole you from me,
Rexol reminded her.
They indoctrinated you into their cult but now they have cast you out!

“I’ve seen the harm Chaos causes,” she whispered. “I’ve seen the damage someone like you can do.”

And what of the damage that creature you saw in your visions will do? Let me help you, Cassandra. Set aside the life the Order thrust upon you and embrace the destiny that is rightfully yours.

The gruesome images of the ritual Cassandra had witnessed in her vision were still burned in her brain. The enemy they faced was brutal, bestial, and utterly without mercy. She couldn’t count on the Order to save her; Yasmin had led them down the wrong path.

And the Minions were still hunting her; eventually they would find her and take the Crown. She couldn’t let that happen. But she wasn’t strong enough to keep them at bay.

You are strong enough,
Rexol cooed.
I can show you how to unlock your true potential.

“Teach me. I’m ready to learn.”

Orath knelt on the cellar floor, the packed dirt cool beneath him. His head was bowed, his breathing shallow. He was alone now, his sacrifices reduced to small piles of ash by the fury of Chaos he’d unleashed.

They served their purpose.

He was mentally and physically exhausted but otherwise unharmed. He had pierced the Legacy, sent a message across the Burning Sea, and survived. But he couldn’t exult in his success. Instead, his mind was troubled.

Just before the ritual began, he’d felt an intruding presence—someone watching him from a great distance. It wasn’t hard to imagine who the unwelcome observer might be.

The Crown gave Daemron the gift of omniscience.

The young woman who carried it was drawing on the Talisman’s power more freely than he’d ever imagined. Yet another reminder of how dangerous she was.

He’d managed to drive her away. At least, that’s what he’d believed at first. But during the ritual he’d sensed something strange: the distant echo of a powerful blast of Chaos being unleashed.

It had been so faint he couldn’t even be certain it had been real. Perhaps in the struggle of his spell, he’d imagined it.

Or maybe she was still here, watching me. Trying to disrupt my spell from afar.

If so, she had failed…though Orath couldn’t help but wonder what kind of backlash her ill-advised attempt might bring. There were always repercussions to using Chaos.

It doesn’t matter now. The ritual is over.

She had only found him because of the ritual—gathering so much Chaos for a single spell was like setting out a beacon. Now that Orath knew she was searching for him, he would be more careful. He would stay hidden—at least until he received guidance from his master.

Daemron will know how to defeat her.

Orath had sent out his call. Now he only had to wait for the Slayer to answer.

K
EEGAN WAS DEEP
in a dreamless sleep when a wave of Chaos rolled over him. He didn’t wake, but his subconscious mind was instantly roused by the unmistakable—though distant—sensation of blue heat.

Rexol, his former master, has taken on a new apprentice—a young blond girl with emerald-green eyes. The Chaos mage looms over her as she sits on the floor, studying a large open book in her lap.

Even asleep, Keegan recognized he was experiencing some kind of vision—the details were more sharp and precise than an ordinary dream.

At first the girl appears to be no more than six or seven, but as she recites her lessons she seems to change, morphing from a child into a teenager, then a young woman.

Rexol was dead; Keegan had watched as he’d been consumed by the Crown. So was this a glimpse of the past?

The woman closes the book and sets it aside, then stands up to face the Chaos mage. Her green eyes shimmer briefly before transforming to pure white.

He recognizes her now—Cassandra. The one who helped them escape from the Order’s prisons back in the Monastery.

Rexol extends his hand to the young woman, his face grim and determined. She scowls and shakes her head at first, then slowly reaches out. As their fingers interlock a pillar of blue flame erupts from the ground, swallowing them both up with a terrible roar.

Keegan’s eyes snapped open, wide and alert. His head whipped about as he struggled to kick off the blanket that had somehow tangled about his arms and legs. His heart was pounding, his body reacting with an instinctive fear to the sudden explosion of Chaos he’d just witnessed.

“What’s the matter?” a voice whispered in his ear. “What’s wrong?”

It took a second for the young man’s mind to register who was speaking, though once he did it didn’t come as any surprise. Jerrod—watchful and protective as ever—was kneeling at his side.

Daybreak was still an hour away, but the sky had already changed from black to gray. In the early twilight, Keegan could just barely make out the details of the Inquisitor camp. The horses were off to one side, sleeping on their feet. Scythe sat on the ground near them, her back resting against the supply packs for support. Daemron’s Sword lay across her lap. Her gaze shifted over to Keegan briefly, then back to the dwindling fire in the middle of the camp and the sleeping soldier lying next to it.

So he didn’t try to escape in the night,
Keegan thought.
If he had, Scythe or Jerrod would have killed him.

“Keegan,” Jerrod snapped, clutching at his shoulder. “Are you okay? Answer me!”

“I’m fine,” Keegan said, reaching up with his good hand to brush the monk away. “It was just a dream.”

“A dream? Or a vision?”

“A vision,” he admitted. “But it didn’t make any sense.”

“They never do,” Scythe called out from where she sat.

“Interpreting them can be a challenge,” Jerrod conceded. “But there is always truth hidden within them.”

“I saw Rexol,” Keegan told him. “He was with Cassandra.”

“This may have been a glimpse into the past,” the monk suggested. “She was his apprentice for a time before the Order took her away.”

Keegan shook his head. “She wasn’t a girl in this vision. Well, she was at first. But by the end she was an adult.”

Scythe snorted and shook her head. Keegan welcomed her derision—she was starting to act more like her old self.
Ever since the fight with the Inquisitors. Maybe using the Sword helped her somehow.

“Tell me more,” Jerrod urged, drawing Keegan’s attention away from her.

“I think Rexol was teaching her. Or trying to. It seemed like she didn’t want to work with him.”

“That could be symbolic of her time with the Order,” Jerrod explained. “They would have indoctrinated her to reject his teachings.”

“He reached out to her, and eventually she took his hand,” Keegan continued. “And then they were both swallowed up in an explosion of Chaos.”

“She helped us escape the prisons,” Jerrod reminded him. “But she didn’t do so willingly. She was compelled. Rexol had bound her loyalty through some kind of spell.”

“And after we were free,” Keegan added, nodding his agreement, “Rexol was consumed by the Crown. It makes sense.”

Scythe laughed. “A vision isn’t much good if it only shows you something you already know happened.”

“There must be a reason Keegan witnessed this vision tonight,” Jerrod explained. “A catalyst that will give further meaning to what we already know.”

“Give me a minute to think,” Keegan said, feeling like some important revelation was lurking in the corner of his mind, just waiting to be revealed.

He recalled the strange sensation of Chaos rolling over him at the start of the vision. It almost felt as if someone had tried to cast a spell without any understanding of how to direct or control the power he summoned, only to have the Chaos break free and run wild through the mortal world.

Maybe it was backlash from Scythe’s using the Sword.

But that explanation made no sense; as far as they knew, the blade suppressed Chaos. Swallowed it up and trapped it within itself.

That’s why it was so hard to use the Ring in the Guardian’s cave. And that’s why the Frozen East has no wizards. The Sword dulls the power of Chaos.

Maybe it had only been his imagination. Or maybe the Chaos he’d felt had just been part of the vision. But if that was the case, then what had been the catalyst? Why had he suddenly had a vision of Rexol and Cassandra?

His eyes dropped to their prisoner as he rummaged through his thoughts. The soldier was awake now though he lay motionless on the ground, his eyes following their conversation with apprehension and confusion.

“Him,” Keegan said, pointing at the mercenary as it all fell into place. “He’s the catalyst.”

“You saying he has Chaos in his blood?” Scythe asked, suddenly on her feet with her blade at the ready.

“No,” Keegan said quickly. “But maybe my vision was meant to show me what we should do with him.”

“I already know,” Scythe said. “We all do.”

Keegan ignored her and turned his attention to the mercenary on the ground.

“Maybe she’s right,” he said, still trying to work his way through the details of his sudden revelation. “You served the Order. Why shouldn’t we kill you?”

“I didn’t know they were going to kill those farmers,” he said. “Not like that. Not all of them.”

“You’re not some naïve raw recruit,” Keegan countered. “You’re a mercenary. A hired blade. Why should what happened at the farm even bother you?”

“I’m not like that,” he protested. “I’ve seen my share of battles. Even killed a man once. But that was in a fair fight! I’m no murderer!”

“Is there some point to this?” Scythe wanted to know.

There was, but Keegan didn’t want to explain himself yet. He had an idea, but it wasn’t something he was willing to try unless he believed the man was worth saving.

“When Carthin started taking orders from the Pontiff, I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” the soldier continued. “I was always taught that the Order protected us. The Purge was supposed to keep us safe from dangerous witches and wizards. And then everything got out of control.”

“What do you mean?” Keegan asked.

“Once Carthin was named Justice, every noble who wasn’t in his pocket suddenly became a heretic. If they bowed down to him and swore allegiance, they’d escape the worst punishments. If not, he’d butcher them and take their holdings for his own.”

“You were actually surprised by this?” Scythe sneered.

“His army doubled in size as guards and men-at-arms from fallen houses swore allegiance to him. And the more troops he got, the worse the Purge became. Half the soldiers who joined were just bandits lured in by the promise of good pay for easy work.

“There were rumors. Nasty stuff. Innocent villages terrorized by bands of armed men claiming to serve the Justice. Homes looted and razed. Men killed and women violated.

“I thought the Order was trying to keep them in check. Until I saw what the Inquisitors did at the farm.”

“You’re a little old to just be figuring out that there are no good guys in the world,” Scythe mocked.

“No!” Keegan snapped. “That’s not true. Evil exists, but there are those who stand against it. Heroes. Like us!”

She raised an incredulous eyebrow, then simply shook her head and turned away.

“Heroes don’t kill unarmed prisoners,” Keegan added, this time speaking to Jerrod.

“A noble sentiment,” the monk admitted. “But our cause is too important simply to let this man loose. Especially with all he knows about us.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he swore, struggling to his knees. “I don’t want anything more to do with the Order!”

“If we release you,” Keegan asked, “what will you do?”

The man blinked quickly and wet his lips with his tongue, his mind frantically searching for the right answer.

“The Free Cities,” he finally said. “I’ll go there. Torian has sworn allegiance to the Order, but none of the others have.”

“Good,” Keegan said with a nod. “If the Order lays siege to Callastan, we may need allies to help us break through their ranks. Go to the Free Cities and tell them what happened here. If enough people hear of the atrocities of the Purge, maybe they will do something about it.”

“I doubt one common soldier can convince the Free Cities to wage war against the Order,” Jerrod said.

“But it can’t hurt,” Keegan countered.

The soldier was nodding vigorously now. “Yes. Of course. I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll tell them anything you want!”

“I believe you,” Keegan said. “Because I am going to use Chaos magic to bind you to my will.”

Insanity, many in the Order believed, was an inevitable side effect of summoning Chaos; every mage, every wizard, every witch and conjurer would eventually succumb to madness.

Jerrod had never accepted this doctrine. He believed in the prophecy of the Burning Savior. He believed that mortals touched by Chaos could learn to control the fires of creation, harnessing the power to defeat Daemron upon his return.

He’d seen madness in Rexol, but he’d chalked it up to the mage’s own ambition and arrogance. When Rexol had placed the Crown atop his head, Jerrod had blamed hubris—not insanity—for his death.

Even so, he’d studied Keegan carefully ever since the young man had claimed the Ring, watching for some hint that he was becoming unhinged. The Talisman had taken a toll on him, but so far the effects had seemed primarily physical. But the decision to bind the soldier to his will was not that of a sound and rational mind.

“Keegan,” he said, choosing his words carefully so as not to upset him, “that would be a very bad idea.”

“No,” the wizard replied, his tone calm. “It makes perfect sense. Think about the vision I just had. Rexol bound Cassandra to his will. I can do the same with this man.”

“Did Rexol teach you this ritual?” Jerrod asked, hoping he could use logic to help Keegan see how dangerous and foolish his idea was. “Directing and controlling Chaos in such a specific way would be incredibly complicated.”

“I understand the principles well enough,” Keegan assured him. “And this would be much simpler than what Rexol did. He had to let his spell lie dormant for years, and the magic had to be powerful enough to make Cassandra betray her own kind.”

The young man’s voice was strong, his bearing supremely confident.

I’ve never seen him act like this. What’s gotten into him?

“All I have to do is place a mark on this soldier that will keep him from running to the Order the moment he leaves our sight. Something he has no intention of doing anyway. It will be an easy task.”

“Please,” the man said, crawling forward and groveling at Keegan’s feet. “You don’t have to put some kind of hex on me!”

“No harm will come to you,” the wizard assured him, though there was more threat than comfort in his tone. “As long as you keep your promise and go to the Free Cities.”

Jerrod glanced over at Scythe for support, but she seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation.

The monk grabbed Keegan’s good hand by the wrist, his grip hard enough to make Keegan wince.

Maybe the pain can snap him out of this!

“I know you do not want us to kill the prisoner, but this is not the answer! Chaos is not something to be trifled with!”

Keegan gave Jerrod a withering stare, and the older man loosened his grip, allowing the younger to shake his arm free.

“I am the savior of the mortal world,” Keegan proclaimed, his voice dripping with contempt. “Do you really doubt that I can do this?”

What’s wrong with him?
Jerrod wondered.
He’s haughty. Arrogant. Just like Rexol.

“I used my power to help Norr defeat Shalana in the duel ring,” he added.

“That was different,” Jerrod protested.

“No. Not if you think about it,” Keegan insisted. “I used my power and turned him into a champion to lead his people!”

No you didn’t! You plotted with Scythe and Vaaler to sabotage Shalana. You cheated her out of her victory. It was all just a trick!