Chaos Unleashed (18 page)

The Ring. I could sense its power, shining like a beacon. It brought me back.

Casting out with his awareness, he sought out the unmistakable signature of the Talisman, peering far into the depths of the blue flames surrounding him in all directions. But he saw nothing.

Am I too far away? Or has carrying the Ring for so long made its call too familiar—too mundane—for me to sense it now?

With nothing to guide him back, he would be lost forever. As if sensing his despair, the heat from the flames flared up and he cried out.

How much longer can I last? How soon until my strength gives out?

When he became too weak to hold back the Chaos the flames would devour him, his essence consumed by the fires of creation from which all things were born.

His situation was hopeless; instead of fighting to prolong his suffering, it would be easier just to surrender and let the Chaos take him. A quick and merciful end.

No! Scythe wouldn’t give up. She’d fight to the end even if she couldn’t win. And so will I!

Gathering his will, he pushed back against the Chaos. The heat from the flames abated, though it was still hot enough to make it feel like his nonexistent skin was blistering.

Jerrod and Scythe will help me. They’ll find a way to bring me back!

Y
ASMIN PASSED THROUGH
her army’s camp like a specter in the night, illuminated by the orange light of a small fire one moment, then vanishing into the shadows the next. Few of the soldiers noticed the Pontiff’s passing; those that did quickly looked away, as if afraid of drawing her notice.

Their fear was understandable; the public execution of Lord Carthin and several of his inner circle had sent a clear message through the ranks. As she’d expected, most of the troops had fallen into line once word spread of the former Justice of the Order’s grisly end. Officers formerly under Carthin’s command had quickly assembled their men and marched double time to Norem to swear their allegiance to the Pontiff in person lest they suffer a similar fate.

There had been some who chose a different path, of course: deserters and mercenaries who set off on their own rather than join the force preparing to march on Callastan. Yasmin had sent patrols to make examples of a few of these traitors, but her wrath could only reach those within a few days’ march of Norem.

She could do little to stop the bands of armed men wreaking havoc on the farthest borders of the Southlands—not until after Callastan had fallen and the Crown was safely back in her hands, at least. But eventually there would be a reckoning for all those who refused to answer her call.

As she walked among the soldiers, she could sense their fatigue. She had pushed them hard, driving them toward Callastan to join up with the army already encamped outside the city walls. Were it not for Carthin’s betrayal, the battle would have been over weeks ago. But now the end was near. In a few more days they would reach their destination though she knew she’d need to give the troops time to recover from the march before she ordered the final attack on the city.

However, fatigue was not all she sensed from her troops. She could hear them speaking in tense whispers; she saw the concern on their faces. Some were mercenaries or trained soldiers drawn from the ranks of guards, but most were ordinary civilians initially recruited through their faith in the Order or the promise of coins from Carthin’s coffers. The prospect of charging the heavily defended walls of Callastan made them anxious, a natural reaction about which Yasmin could do little.

The presence of the Blood Moon had only added to their apprehension though Yasmin saw the red orb that filled the night sky as a portent of victory. In a few days there would indeed be death and suffering, but it would be her army that unleashed it upon a city of infidels and heretics that had defied the Order for too long.

She expected Callastan to offer minimal resistance. If her scouts were accurate, the Order had an almost three-to-one advantage over the makeshift army opposing them. And though many in her ranks were inexperienced, they were bolstered by trained mercenaries and her Inquisitors.

Apart from the city’s Enforcers, the enemy ranks would be filled with thugs and criminals from Callastan’s underbelly. Once the tide began to turn against them, Yasmin knew, their true nature would show through. At the first sign of trouble, they would abandon their efforts to hold the walls and scuttle back into their tunnels and sewers to save their own wretched skins.

But the city is not our true goal,
she reminded herself. In the confusion of the attack, Cassandra would try to escape with the Crown.

She’ll make for the docks. And my Inquisitors will be waiting for her.

“Remember, Cassandra,” Methodis warned as they wound their way through the dark back alleys of the docks district, “these are dangerous men. They are not to be trusted.”

The old healer had found someone who claimed to know the location of the island Cassandra had seen in her dreams…someone who might also be willing to smuggle her out of the city. But his contact wanted to meet her in person before agreeing to any kind of deal.

“If the honorable cannot help me,” Cassandra told him, “then I must deal with those who have no honor.”

She was wearing a heavy robe, with the hood pulled up to hide her features as they wound their way through the dark back alleys of the docks district. The Crown was tucked away in a thick leather satchel, the leather straps slung over both shoulders so she could wear it like a backpack.

These streets are crawling with pickpockets and thieves,
Rexol complained.
It isn’t safe to be carrying the Crown in this part of town!

Safer than leaving it back in Methodis’s shop,
she countered, shutting the wizard up.

“Saying these brutes have no honor undersells the point,” Methodis chided. “They are pirates, pure and simple. They attacked my ship, killed my crewmates, and took me prisoner. For several years they forced me to serve as their healer, keeping me shackled and bound below the decks.”

“How did you win your freedom?” she asked.

“Bo-Shing, their captain, contracted a prolonged case of what sailors call ‘root rot,’ ” Methodis explained. “Rarely fatal, but a particularly frustrating and humiliating condition—particularly when the sufferer visits the brothels in a port of call.”

Though she had been raised in the Monastery, Cassandra knew enough about the world to understand what the healer was implying.

“I offered Bo-Shing a cure on the condition that he set me free.”

“And he honored this agreement?” Cassandra asked, with mild surprise.

“A pirate who cannot fornicate is barely a man in the eyes of the others,” he told her. “I promised never to mention his ailment to any of the crew, and he thought it wiser to let me go than keep me around and risk having his shameful secret exposed.”

“His ailment was a fortunate occurrence for you,” Cassandra noted.

The old doctor gave her a sly wink. “Fortune often favors those who take pains to make it happen.”

The pirates underestimated him,
Cassandra realized.
Methodis seems harmless, but there is much more to him than meets the eye.

“It would be wise not to mention any of this at the meeting,” he said, as they rounded another corner. “Though I rather doubt he will bring it up.”

The pair found themselves in a dead-end alley. In the rear wall was a heavy wooden door reinforced with steel bars. A small rectangle had been carved out at eye level and shuttered on the other side.

“How exactly did you get these men to agree to this?” she asked.

“They are no friends of the Order,” he told her. “And I appealed to Bo-Shing’s ego. He takes immense pride in his ship. He claims
The
Chaos Runner
was built from trees harvested from the North Forest by a great wizard many centuries ago, giving the vessel powerful mystical properties.”

“Do you believe these tales?”

“
The
Chaos Runner
is easily twice as fast as any other ship I’ve seen, and Bo-Shing has guided it unharmed through fierce storms that would sink an entire fleet. No matter how skilled his crew, that wouldn’t be possible without some kind of magic.

“And despite his moral failings, Bo-Shing’s ability as a captain makes him worthy of such a ship. He is one of the few sailors skilled enough—or mad enough—to travel into the uncharted waters beyond the Western Isles. I think he welcomes the challenge.”

“And this was enough to convince him?”

“I may also have hinted that the Keystone was erected to mark the location of a vast treasure buried somewhere on the island.”

“And what will happen when they discover this is not true?” Cassandra asked.

“Hopefully we will have come up with a plan for that event when the time comes.”

“You’re coming with me?” Cassandra asked, surprised.

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave you alone with these men—they’ll betray you the first chance they get. You’ll need someone to watch your back.”

He just wants to stay close to the Crown!
Rexol warned, paranoid as ever.

Cassandra had her own reservations about Methodis’s coming with her, though it had nothing to do with trusting him. Now that her legs had healed, she was far more capable of taking care of herself than the old healer was. His presence would just mean she’d have to watch out for him, too. But she was still touched by the gesture, and she didn’t see any point in arguing with him about it right now. Especially since the pirates hadn’t yet agreed to take her.

If you use the Crown, you can make them do anything you want,
Rexol reminded her.

Cassandra had no intention of unleashing the Talisman’s power unless she had no other choice, so she simply ignored his suggestion.

“Are you ready to meet some of the most vile, cruel, and evil men Callastan has to offer?” Methodis asked.

When she nodded her assent, he reached out and knocked twice on the barred door. The panel slid open and a pair of eyes peered out at them through the slit. Then the panel slid shut, and she heard the sound of metal grating on metal from the other side. A few seconds later, the heavy door slid slowly open and they stepped inside, Methodis leading the way.

The room beyond the door was smaller than she expected—barely twenty feet on each side. The walls were bare and the furnishings plain: a large, circular table sat in the center, with ten chairs around it. A small corridor in the opposite wall led to another door similar to the one they had entered: heavy wood reinforced with metal bars, with a small viewing window carved into it.

With her Sight, Cassandra knew the scene beyond that door was what one would typically expect in a busy tavern near the docks: a boisterous crowd of sailors, whores, and petty criminals drinking, fighting, and carousing as buxom barmaids moved among the tables dropping off drinks and slapping away unwanted hands grabbing and groping at them as they made their rounds.

The scene in this small room at the back, however, was far tamer. Five men had gathered to meet them. His olive skin, colorful and flamboyant clothes, and wild tattoos marked the one who’d let them in as a native of the Western Isles, as were two of the others sitting at the table. Standing guard near the door to the main tavern was a tall, muscular Southlander wearing the local garb. Another Southlander—at least twenty years older than any of the others in the group but dressed in the same style as the Islanders—was also seated at the table.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” one of the Islanders at the table said in a thick accent.

“You know I always keep my promises, Bo-Shing,” Methodis replied.

Now that she knew who the leader was, Cassandra gave him a more careful evaluation. She guessed his age to be somewhere in his midthirties. He was heavyset and powerfully built, though a layer of fat now covered his muscles. His skin was naturally dark, but years of exposure to the sun while sailing the seas had turned it from olive to a burnished bronze. He had a long black beard and hair that hung down to his shoulders, both of which were bound in numerous tight braids by gold and silver ties. He wore a thin, tight-fitting red shirt with short sleeves and a low, plunging neck, exposing the tattoos on his arms and chest. One cheek was marred by a long, uneven scar.

“Tell your friend to remove her hood,” he said. “I like to look a woman in the eye when I talk to her.”

There was something in his gaze that set Cassandra on edge—an intensity and hunger, like those of a predator stalking its next meal.

You could crush him like an insect,
Rexol told her.

I need these men to help me,
she reminded him.

She pulled the cowl back to reveal her pure white eyes.

“Did you sell us out to the Order?” Bo-Shing hissed.

“I do not serve the Pontiff,” Cassandra assured him. “Not anymore.”

Though she was facing Bo-Shing, her awareness encompassed the entire room. When the Islander who had let them in pulled a knife from his belt and rushed at her from behind, she had plenty of time to think about her reaction.

You don’t even need the Crown for this,
Rexol snorted with disdain.

He was right, of course. It was common knowledge that the Inquisitors spent years honing their fighting skills and transforming themselves into deadly warriors. But they were not the only members of the Order trained in the martial arts. Every monk within the Monastery was taught the basics of self-defense, and from a young age Cassandra had learned how to channel the power of Chaos that flowed through her into physical action. A Seer might not be able to take on a half dozen trained soldiers at once, but a single pirate posed no real threat.

She didn’t even bother to turn to face her attacker. Instead, she lashed out behind her with her right arm in a diagonal strike that caught him on his wrist. She could easily have broken the bone, but she was worried the others might not help her if she inflicted too much damage. Instead, she struck with just enough force to stun so that the blade went flying from his grip.

In the same motion, she redirected the momentum of her arm upward and cocked her elbow, catching him in the throat just beneath his chin. Again, she only struck hard enough to leave him choking and gasping for air rather than crush his windpipe.