Chaos Unleashed (12 page)

Is Unferth the one I should be doubting?

“We have urgent business,” the Pontiff insisted, trying to push him into revealing something. “Perhaps it would be better if we save the meal until after we speak.”

“If that is your wish, then it shall be so,” he readily agreed. “Though it seems a shame to let such a succulent feast go cold.

“Shall we adjourn to my private chambers?” he asked. “I can have my servants take the meal back to the kitchens to try to keep it warm until our meeting is over.”

If this is a trap,
Yasmin thought,
then he seems content not to spring it.

“That would be preferable,” she said.

Carthin nodded and held up a hand. But as he opened his mouth to call for the servants he suddenly stopped and tilted his head to the side, as if he just had a sudden inspiration.

“Perhaps while we are in our discussions,” he suggested, “the rest of your companions can enjoy the feast. Unless you require them to be part of our conversation?”

Yasmin glanced quickly from side to side. Her Inquisitors were standing calm and still by their respective dinner chairs, their staves held casually at their sides. If they sensed anything unusual about the exchange, they were careful not to let it show in their bearing.

She was still wary, but so far there had been nothing to indicate Carthin was guilty of plotting against her. True, he was a nobleman who had pushed a little too hard in his efforts to add to his own power and influence. But that was to be expected, and his only real transgression was making up excuses to delay sending his troops to support the siege at Callastan. To suddenly go from loyal, if reluctant, servant to traitor was a great leap, even for a man as ambitious as Lord Carthin.

Don’t drink the wine!

There really was only one way to discover the truth.

“The others can stay and eat,” Yasmin agreed. “There is no need for them to be privy to our discussions.

“But allow me a moment to slake my thirst before we speak,” she added, picking up the wine goblet in front of her.

She brought it slowly to her lips, focusing her Sight on the rich, ruby liquid. She sensed nothing unusual about it, though she knew there were poisons so subtle even she wouldn’t be able to detect them until it was too late.

Tipping the glass back, she let the wine brush against her lips, though she was careful not to let any slip into her mouth. Most toxins would take time to have any effect, and she doubted a single swallow of anything would be enough to incapacitate her. But there was no point in taking an unnecessary risk.

As she set the goblet down on the table she let her awareness drift back across the room toward Carthin. His face was still plastered with the same ingratiating grin he’d worn since she entered, but for an instant she saw something flicker in his eyes—a smug glint of cruel satisfaction. It came and went in an instant, but the Pontiff had no doubt about what she’d seen.

Fourscore against a dozen.

There was no time to accuse, no time to explain. Not if she wanted to get to Carthin before he could escape.

Yasmin leapt forward, her long legs propelling her onto the top of the table with a single step as she rushed toward the raised stage. At her back the Inquisitors instantly sprang into action, responding to her charge by fanning out in all directions, their staves spinning furiously through the air.

She had already covered half the distance between her and Carthin by the time he realized what was happening.

“Nightfall! Nightfall!” he shouted, yanking out a black kerchief and waving it above his head.

In response to his signal, the guards aligned along the wall lowered their weapons and rushed forward, trying to mow down the Inquisitors in the center of the room with a wave of spears crashing in from either side.

Yasmin ignored the battle behind her, gaining speed and momentum as she threw herself from the floor and up onto the stage. The dozen guards surrounding Lord Carthin barely had time to ready their spears before she landed among them.

The stone stage was large, but with nearly a dozen armed combatants battling on it there wasn’t much room to spare. The Pontiff was a blur of motion, spinning, leaping, and ducking to avoid the clumsy thrusts and stabs of the soldier’s spears in the close quarters. She lashed out with her staff, catching one of the guards across the helm. The force of the blow dented the side of his helmet and made his eyes roll back into his head, but it also caused Yasmin’s staff to snap in two.

Carthin had scrambled out of his seat, knocking his makeshift throne onto its side as he desperately tried to stay out of the melee. Yasmin took a step to follow him, only to be cut off by several of the guards.

Dropping to the floor, Yasmin rolled clear of three soldiers who tried to tackle her to the ground, then sprang to her feet and hurled the splintered remains of her weapon at the nearest opponent. She threw it with such force that the jagged end of the staff ripped through the guard’s chain-mail shirt and buried itself deep in his chest. He clutched at the protruding shaft and staggered back before disappearing off the edge of the stage.

Several soldiers closed in on Yasmin from all sides, forcing her to leap off the stage and back onto the floor below. On an instinctive level, she was aware that her Inquisitors were wreaking havoc among the guards on the floor—at least twenty soldiers were already down. But two of her brethren had already fallen, and the others would soon begin to tire and slow. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers against them.

I have to get to Carthin—force him to surrender!

The remaining guards atop the stage were too disciplined to follow her down to the floor. Instead, they had formed a protective wall between her and the Justice. Fortunately, the rest of the soldiers were too preoccupied with the Inquisitors to come to Carthin’s immediate aid, giving Yasmin enough time and space to try another tactic.

A quick backflip took her from the floor and up onto the table where the feast had been prepared. Her lips were burning from where the wine had brushed against them; whatever poison Carthin had chosen was incredibly potent. In a single fluid motion, the Pontiff crouched, scooped up one of the still-full wine goblets and hurled it at the soldiers. They cried out in surprise, then ducked away and covered their eyes and mouths with the crook of their arms as it sprayed over them.

In rapid succession she whipped the remaining goblets at the guards, causing their ranks to break and scatter. Three fell to the ground, writhing in agony as the vile liquid splashed into their eyes, blinding them almost instantly.

With the wine gone, Yasmin simply switched to the silverware on the table. The knives were dull and ill balanced, and the three-pronged forks were blunted from years of use. But they were heavy and metal, and thrown with enough force they could still be deadly.

Yasmin unleashed a barrage of the unorthodox missiles, each one thrown with extreme velocity and devastating accuracy. She scored a direct hit to the face on three of the soldiers, shattering noses, teeth, and jaws. Several others managed to throw their arms up to shield themselves, only to have wrists, elbows, and forearms cracked and snapped by the deadly projectiles. Within seconds, the stage was littered with the prone bodies of grown men, groaning and whimpering in pain…or lying deathly silent.

Carthin stared in dumbfounded disbelief at the carnage around him, then dropped to his knees in supplication as Yasmin bounded up onto the stage.

“Call them off!” she barked.

He nodded emphatically and whipped out a white handkerchief, then shouted “Daybreak! Daybreak! Daybreak!” while waving it above his head.

It took a few moments for his command to make its way across the battlefield, but soon all of the soldiers had set down their weapons and retreated back to the edges of the banquet hall.

Yasmin looked out at the carnage, taking quick stock of the casualties. Four Inquisitors were dead, along with nearly thirty of Carthin’s men, not including the dozen she had dispatched up on the stage.

The now-unarmed soldiers were huddled together against the side walls of the banquet hall, watching her with fear and trepidation.

“Go spread the word through the castle,” she told them. “Carthin is my prisoner, and Lord Unferth is once again in charge!”

Relieved to be spared their lives, the soldiers rushed off to fulfill her commands.

“Go with them,” she told her Inquisitors. “See that my orders are followed.”

As her loyal followers disappeared, she turned her attention back to her prisoner.

“Did you really think you could overthrow the Order?” she asked him. “We have stood for seven hundred years!”

“Your power is far less than you know,” Carthin answered.

His insolence surprised her. She’d expected him to grovel and beg for mercy though it would have been to no avail.

“Your Purge would have ended before it ever started if it wasn’t for me,” Carthin continued, his face twisting into a sneer. “Nobody cares for your religion anymore. My coin is what brought swords to your cause!

“If you execute me, how many of my mercenaries do you think will follow you to Callastan?”

He laughed, his eyes wild and crazed. “You still need me, Pontiff. If you want my armies, then we still have to work out some kind of deal!”

“You might be right,” Yasmin admitted after a moment’s thought. “Most of these soldiers care more for coin than for what is right.

“But,” she added, even as a faint glimmer of hope appeared in Carthin’s eyes, “it doesn’t matter to any of them where the coin comes from.

“You are expendable,” she whispered, leaning in close to his ear. “And tomorrow, I will watch you burn!”

The smell of burning flesh was abhorrent to many, but the Pontiff understood it for what it was. Like the putrid scent of a gangrenous limb being amputated, it represented a necessary measure to save a greater whole. And so she welcomed the oily stench, for she knew the fire cleansed and purified.

Beside her, Lord Unferth struggled not to gag as the wind shifted and the black smoke rolled over them. His position had been restored, but she sensed he was still disturbed by the scene of Carthin’s execution.

In a perfect world, the former Justice would not have been the only one put to the flame. Each and every soldier who had raised a weapon against her Inquisitors deserved a similar fate. But at Unferth’s urging, she had decided to show them clemency.

“They were only following orders,” he had pleaded. “And if you show them mercy, they will owe you their lives. What better way to secure their loyalty before we march on Callastan?”

His words made sense, but they rankled nonetheless. It stank of weakness.

They say he has the soul of an artist.
In the end, though, she was forced to accept his logic: They needed all the troops they could muster.

“Have you sent orders to the other garrisons Carthin controlled?” the Pontiff asked.

Unferth coughed and cleared his throat several times before speaking, struggling to spit out the taste of the bitter smoke.

“Birds and messengers have been dispatched. But I cannot say how many will respond.

“Even Carthin was having trouble keeping control of his troops, especially the mercenaries patrolling the borderlands. Now that he is gone, things will only get worse.”

Yasmin nodded. Unferth had filled her in on the situation. The reports of soldiers going rogue—looting and pillaging defenseless villages—were more widespread than she had first imagined.

“Surely there are still some out there who are loyal to the Order,” she mused.

“Some will answer your call, Pontiff,” Unferth agreed. “But many will not.

“At least you can count on the support of me and my people,” the old man added. “I may not be the warrior Carthin was, but I promise my devotion will not waver.”

Perhaps the soul of an artist has more mettle than I thought.

“We will leave in three days,” Yasmin told him. “And I will personally lead your troops as we march on Callastan.”

D
ARMMID WOKE FEELING
nauseous. He peeled off the damp blanket he wrapped himself in and sat up from the small ditch at the side of the road where he’d spent the night.

The motion made his head spin, and he coughed and choked, spitting up globs of mucus and sour bile. He took a quick swig from his wineskin to wash the taste away, but it did little to settle his stomach.

The sun was barely up, but he knew better than to try to get back to sleep. The hex the one-handed mage had cast on him was powerful magic: He didn’t feel sick just when he thought about disobeying his orders; he even felt ill if he stayed too long in one place.

Damn wizard got his hooks into you good, Darm. Nothing you can do but keep moving.

He got to his feet, rolled up his blanket, and stuffed it inside his pack of dwindling supplies. A few minutes later he was on the move again, pack slung over his shoulder, moving at an easy but steady pace down the narrow dirt road. With every step he felt the sickness slipping away, and within an hour he was back to feeling normal.

For a while, at least. Enjoy it while you can, Darm.

Ever since leaving the wizard and his strange companions, Darm had been marching steadily northwest toward the Free Cities. He avoided the main roads—too much chance of running into Inquisitors or Carthin’s men. He hadn’t survived this long just to be executed as a deserter.

Whenever he came across a village or small town, he took a wide detour around it—too many of those had been overrun by rogue mercenaries, and he didn’t want to run afoul of them, either. But he was always quick to get headed back in the right direction as soon as possible. The one time he’d dared to try and actually change his course he’d been racked by stomach spasms and a vomiting fit so severe he thought he was going to die; since then he hadn’t even thought about disobeying the wizard’s instructions.

Of course, he had no idea what he was supposed to do once he got to the Free Cities or what the hex would do to him if he failed to convince them to come to Callastan’s aid.

Don’t have to worry about that yet, Darm. At this rate, it’ll take you another week at least to get there.

“Things would go faster if I snuck into the next village and stole a horse,” he muttered aloud.

He paused after the words were out of his mouth, waiting to see if they brought on another wave of nausea or some other physical ailment. Fortunately, he felt nothing. Apparently the curse he was under didn’t care if he stole somebody’s mount.

Just as long as you get where you’re going, Darm. That’s the only thing that matters. Just get where you’re going.

“I think there’s a small village a few miles over the next hill,” Vaaler said.

“How could you possibly know that?” Shalana wondered.

Almost two weeks had passed since they’d left the clan camp at the Giant’s Maw, heading out with the dozen warriors chosen to be in their honor guard. The winter snow and winds that had slowed their progress in the first days had been left far behind, the weather getting steadily warmer the farther west and south they went.

Two nights ago they had finally abandoned the supply sleds; now that they were in the border regions of the Southlands there wasn’t enough snow on the ground to make them worthwhile. They had now traveled farther west than Shalana had ever been in her life, where the flat, snow-covered plains gave way to gently rolling hills of yellow-green grass and copses of small trees, their branches bare as they waited patiently for spring to return.

“The Danaan cartographers made detailed maps of the areas around the Free Cities,” Vaaler explained in answer to her question. “I used to study them when I was a child.”

“And you still remember them?” Shalana asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I don’t forget things very often,” he said with a self-effacing shrug. “The village is called Othlen, I think.”

“You continue to surprise me,” Shalana told him, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

A few of the warriors in the honor guard chuckled, and the faint green hue of Vaaler’s skin deepened with embarrassment.

“We should make camp here,” he said, all business after flashing her a brief, shy smile. “If we crest the hill, someone in the village might see us.”

Shalana nodded, and the others began to set up camp. The Stone Spirits had never attacked any of the settlements in the Southlands; their territory was farther east. But the same could not be said of other clans. Here they were still close enough to the Frozen East for the locals to be wary of raiding parties, and the sight of fourteen armed warriors descending on their town might send the people into a panic.

“In a few days we’re going to run short of food,” Shalana noted as she set down the pack she’d been carrying. “We might be able to hunt for what we need, but it will slow us down.”

“Maybe I can go into town and bargain for what we need,” Vaaler suggested.

“How?” she asked with a laugh. “We have no money. Nothing to trade but our weapons. And I think we’ll need those once we reach Callastan.”

“It’s worth a try,” Vaaler insisted. “I can be very persuasive when I have to.”

“I won’t deny that,” she admitted with a smile. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “You’re right. We should go into town.”

“Things will probably go better if I’m by myself,” Vaaler noted.

“I didn’t mean all of us,” Shalana said, exasperated. “Just you and me. The others can stay here out of sight.”

“Barbarians aren’t very popular in these parts,” Vaaler warned.

“Barbarians? Really?” She wasn’t so much offended as surprised; she’d never heard Vaaler refer to her people in that way before.

“That’s how folks around here see you.”

“You’re one of us now,” Shalana reminded him. “Just look at how you’re dressed.”

Vaaler shook his head.

“People see me and the only thing they notice is the color of my skin. They think Danaan, not Barbarian. They’ll see you as a threat. They’ll see me as a curiosity, no matter how I’m dressed.”

“You still shouldn’t go alone,” she insisted. “It’s dangerous. Besides, I speak Allrish. I can blend in.”

“Your accent would give you away. And besides,” he added, reaching out to brush her cheek, “you are far too striking ever to just blend in anywhere.”

Shalana didn’t smile at the compliment; she was still worried about the idea of his going on alone. The journey so far had been easy and without incident, but she knew it was only a matter of time until trouble found them.

“I know you don’t like this, but we don’t have a lot of other options.”

Gritting her teeth, Shalana finally nodded.
He’s always so calm and logical. It makes it that much more frustrating when he’s right!

“I’ll probably have to spend the night there,” he said. “So try to at least wait until tomorrow afternoon before you panic and come charging in to save me.”

“I’d rather you were careful enough that you don’t need saving.”

“I can’t promise that,” he said with a wink. Then he gave her a kiss and set off.

She watched until her love disappeared over the hill, then turned back to the others. “Sill and Genny, take the first watch. The rest of you try to get some sleep. I want to move out as soon as Vaaler gets back.”

Village was too grand a word for the handful of small, nondescript buildings that greeted Vaaler. Othlen was really just a hamlet; nothing more than a small tavern and a few shops to service the surrounding farms.

It would have been strange to find the streets bustling with activity, but Vaaler was surprised to see them completely deserted. At the very least he would have expected some wagons or a few horses to be lashed to the hitching post outside the tavern; during the winter months farmers had little else to do but come into town to drink and share stories with each other.

Something feels off about this place. Like there’s a pall in the air.

His first thought was plague. But if Othlen had been abandoned because of some kind of disease, there would have been quarantine markers along the road warning travelers away.

Maybe you’re overreacting. Maybe it’s just a slow night in a quiet little town.

Wary, he entered the village and made his way slowly down the middle of the dirt path that served as the only through road. In the evening’s dusk, he caught a glimpse of light from under the tavern door as he passed by, and he felt some of his tension slip away.

At least someone’s still here.
Putting on a smile, he approached the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The interior looked much as he’d expected: several small tables, a dozen chairs, and a simple bar against the far wall. A man of about forty stood behind the bar, a woman of about the same age hovered in the shadows of a back corner. Two men sat at one of the tables; based on the matching uniforms they wore and the short, broad swords dangling from the hilts slung over the back of their respective chairs, Vaaler guessed they were soldiers of some kind.

Everyone had turned to look at the new arrival, their eyes going wide on registering the stranger in their midst. One of the soldiers smiled and chuckled softly, shaking his head before giving his companion a knowing look. Vaaler waited for someone to speak, but nobody said anything else.

“Good evening,” Vaaler offered, addressing the barkeep while trying to make his voice light and breezy. “I was wandering by and noticed a light from under the door. I trust you are open?”

The barkeep glanced at his other two customers, then back at Vaaler, his expression anxious.

“We’re open,” he finally said though the words sounded like a confession.

“I’m on a bit of a journey,” Vaaler said, approaching the bar, “and I seem to be running short on supplies.”

He tried to keep his manner casual, but he was careful not to lose sight of the two soldiers. He noticed they were watching him with keen interest.

“We don’t have much in stock,” the barkeep warned him. His eyes kept jumping from Vaaler to the pair at the table. “Maybe you should just move on.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Gred,” one of the soldiers called out, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “I’m guessing this Treefolk feller has something worth trading for.”

The barkeep’s face paled, and Vaaler’s mind began to review his options. He was carrying his long, thin rapier at his side, but the last thing he wanted was for this to come to bloodshed.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any coin,” Vaaler admitted. “I was hoping I could maybe trade some interesting tales or maybe a song for a small bit of food.”

“We don’t have much use for stories or songs here,” the second soldier said, also standing up now. “But those boots you have are mighty fine. Wouldn’t mind a closer look at them.”

“And maybe that pretty little blade, too,” the first one added. “Not much use in a fight, but it would look good up on the wall.”

“My blade is better in a fight than you might think,” Vaaler said, his voice no longer light and charming. “Pray you don’t find that out the hard way.”

The first soldier held up his hands and took a half step back, laughing. “No harm meant. Just poking a little fun. Nobody’s looking for trouble here.”

That’s an obvious lie,
Vaaler thought.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said to the barkeep. “I should go. My people will start to worry if I’m not back before sunset.”

“Your people?” the second soldier said, his voice high and mocking. “And just how many people do you have? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?”

“I’m leaving now,” Vaaler said, cold and hard. “You two step over to the wall. Leave your swords on the chairs!”

The first soldier shook his head and drew his blade. “We don’t take orders around here. We give them.”

His partner drew his own weapon and winked at Vaaler. Then they both charged.

Shalana had just finished eating when Sill came into the camp, breathing hard.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Where’s Genny?”

“She’s still keeping watch. We were patrolling the perimeter when she noticed smoke. A lot of it.”

“From the village?” Shalana asked, instantly concerned about Vaaler.

“No. Farther south. We went to investigate. Saw some soldiers setting fire to a stable on a small farm.”

“Were you spotted?”

Sill shook his head. “Genny stayed to keep an eye on them. Sent me back to get you.”

Shalana whistled twice. In response, the entire camp sprang to their feet and grabbed their weapons.

“Show me.”

The soldiers came at Vaaler from either side, spreading out as they rushed forward to try to flank him. A simple tactic, but one that killed his hope they were inexperienced or untrained.

He scampered back quickly, circling around so that they were both still in front of him. As they turned to cut off his escape, his eyes flicked down to their boots. You could learn a lot about an opponent simply from their footwork and balance. The men coming at him had the basics down, but they didn’t pivot, slide, or turn with any kind of grace—their footfalls were heavy and deliberate.