Chaos Unleashed (23 page)

Little remained of the victims who had fueled the ritual to contact Daemron. What had not been consumed by the spell had rotted and decayed into putrescent puddles on the cellar floor. A sacrifice was always strongest when it was still alive or freshly killed. But the spell he needed now was not one of raw power. It was an enchantment of subtlety and stealth; he needed something to help him blend in with the shadows and the darkness.

He began to chant, the invocation tumbling in a soft whisper from his lips. As he did so, he crawled over to where the first victim had died. Chaos began to gather, wrapping itself around him in response to his words. He dipped a clawed finger into the liquefied remains, then scooped up the dark, sticky fluids with a cupped palm and smeared them over his head and face.

Still reciting the mystic chant, he scuttled over to where the second victim had died and did the same, painting himself with the gore. As Chaos enveloped him his features blurred. By the time the ritual was done, even his body seemed to flicker slowly in and out of phase.

The illusion wouldn’t make him invisible, not completely. But it would allow him to become one with the darkness. Like an image glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, he would be ephemeral and amorphous unless someone focused directly on him. And if he stayed in the shadows, he wouldn’t be seen at all, not even by the mystical awareness of the Order.

Cloaked in his veil, he climbed the steps and wrenched open the door above. He made his way quickly but carefully through Callastan’s streets, the red light of a quarter-crescent Blood Moon providing him ample darkness to mask his passing.

As he neared the docks he moved more slowly, taking extra care to stay in the blackest corners, where he wouldn’t be seen. He could sense agents of the Pontiff patrolling the area. He sensed them instinctively: The unmistakable spark of Chaos burned within them, though not nearly as strongly as in the Talismans or the Children of Fire.

They’re watching in case the Crown is smuggled out of the city by boat.

Orath knew that eventually the mortal bearing the Talisman would have to come here. He also knew that he must not let it fall into the Order’s hands.

She must reach the Keystone. That is all Daemron wants of me now.

He closed his eyes so he could better focus on the burning essence deep within them. He sensed a dozen Inquisitors in the area, but they were scattered and separated, each one acting alone.

He opened his eyes and crept down another street, bringing him closer to the waterfront. He found a dark corner and settled in to wait, remaining completely motionless for over an hour.

One of the Inquisitors passed only a few yards from where Orath stood. The Minion braced himself as she approached, paused, then continued onward. He studied her as she walked away. There were two others close by, the Chaos in them shining like beacons to show him exactly where they were.

From the safety of the shadows, he studied his three targets. They seemed to be moving randomly, turning left or right at the corner of each street on a whim. Sometimes they doubled back down an alley they had just traversed, other times they unexpectedly broke into a brief sprint before falling back into a brisk walk.

They’re patrolling the area, but they don’t want anyone to be able to pick up a pattern that might let them slip through unnoticed.

But their efforts to remain unpredictable meant there were times when the three were inadvertently patrolling areas almost too close together. More importantly, it meant there were times when they were much farther apart.

The first Inquisitor passed by him two more times that night. In the second instance, Orath sensed one of her brethren only two streets over—close enough to notice and react if anything happened to her. But the third time the others were many blocks away, lingering on the fringes of Orath’s awareness…and safely beyond the limits of their own.

He took the moment of vulnerability to strike, lashing out from the shadows with his razorlike fingernails to rip out the Inquisitor’s throat before she even had a chance to scream. He caught her body as it fell, his thin lips pressing themselves to the gushing wound on her neck to feed.

There was Chaos in her blood; the power was faint but it helped restore some of what he’d lost in casting his most recent spell. And gorging himself on her blood would keep any evidence of her death from being left behind.

Her body went into convulsions as Orath sucked her dry. After thirty seconds the convulsions stopped, and a minute later it was done.

Tossing her drained corpse over one shoulder with a strength that belied his tall, thin stature, Orath retreated before the others returned. He carried her body away from the docks and stuffed her under a pile of refuse behind an abandoned building in the next district over.

One more tonight,
he thought.
But this time from another part of the docks.

He had no doubt his victim would be missed, but he doubted there would be much of a search. They couldn’t abandon their posts to look for their missing comrade. Eventually another would be sent to replace her, but it would take time for word to reach the Pontiff that she had vanished.

For the next few nights, the remaining Inquisitors would have to divide up the area she was patrolling. They would each have to cover more ground, giving him more opportunities to pick them off one by one.

The Crown will not fall into the Order’s hands,
he vowed, his long tongue licking the last few spatters of warm, sticky blood from his chin.
It will reach the Keystone!

There was still almost two hours before the first rays of dawn chased away the night, Orath realized. If he was lucky, there might be enough time for him to take another victim tonight.

He turned away from the refuse pile and the corpse beneath it, his recent feast whetting his appetite rather than sating it. Blending artfully into the shadows, he made his way eagerly back to the docks.

T
WO DAYS AFTER
his ordeal, Keegan still wasn’t feeling completely recovered. But he was anxious to get to Callastan as quickly as possible, so he’d insisted they set out that morning.

Jerrod was up ahead, but he was setting an easy pace. Keegan followed a few feet behind the monk, and Scythe brought up the rear. As they marched in silence, Keegan kept replaying the almost kiss over and over in his head.

Whatever your feelings for Scythe, it was wrong. Norr deserves better. So does she.

Thinking of Norr brought a familiar wave of guilt. But it wasn’t just his inappropriate feelings toward Scythe that brought it on. Jerrod had suggested that some small part of Keegan had actually wanted to get rid of Norr, that maybe subconsciously he’d directed the backlash of his spell so that it brought about the big man’s death.

What if he’s right? Scythe risked herself to save me—would she have done that if she knew I was to blame for Norr’s death?

Keegan didn’t know what they’d find when they reached Callastan, but whatever happened he wanted to face it with a clear conscience.

Slowing his pace, he fell farther behind Jerrod until he was walking beside Scythe. He knew the monk’s keen ears would pick up everything he said but didn’t care. He had to tell Scythe the truth.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is White-eyes going too fast for you?”

“No,” Keegan said. “I just…I have to tell you something.”

The young woman’s sharp features tensed up but she nodded for him to continue.

“It’s about Norr.”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Scythe said.

“Please,” Keegan whispered. “This is important.”

When she nodded again, he continued.

“You know I have feelings for you. I care about you. And not just as a friend.”

“I thought this was about Norr.” Scythe delivered her words through a clenched jaw.

“It is. His death…it might have been my fault.”

“I think I know a bit about how backlash works now,” Scythe said. “Even if it did cause Norr’s death, you couldn’t help it.”

“Maybe,” Keegan admitted. “But it’s possible…” He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He took a deep breath and just blurted them out in a rush.

“Maybe I somehow directed the backlash at Norr. Maybe some part of me was jealous. Maybe I wanted him out of the way.”

Scythe was quiet for a few seconds, then shook her head.

“No. That’s not what happened.”

“It’s possible,” Keegan insisted.

“No, it’s not.” Her tone was adamant.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Norr was your friend. You wouldn’t hurt him on purpose. You wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.”

“Not on purpose,” Keegan agreed. “But what if—”

Scythe stopped and turned, grabbing Keegan by the shoulders and spinning him to face her.

“What happened to Norr wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just happened. Understand?”

Keegan nodded slowly, trying not to wince at Scythe’s viselike grip on his shoulders.

Sensing his discomfort, she let go.

“Norr made his own choices, Keegan,” she continued. “He chose to follow you. And he chose to sacrifice himself to save you. Do you know why?

“Because you’re a good person. Not perfect, but who is? Norr could see what kind of man you are. He didn’t give his friendship lightly, but he considered you his friend.

“And so do I,” she added.

Keegan wanted to say something but couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he just nodded again.

“It’s okay to grieve for Norr,” Scythe said, wiping away a tear from her eye. “It’s okay to feel pain and sadness that he’s gone.

“But he’d want us to keep going. He’d want us to stay strong. He’d want us to see this through to the end. Most of all, he’d want us to do it together.

“Can you do that, Keegan?” she asked. “Can you promise me that much?”

“We’ll see this through to the end,” Keegan said. “You and me. I promise.”

Scythe pulled him close and gave him a short but fierce hug. As she let him go, Keegan turned to see that Jerrod had stopped up ahead and turned back toward them. The monk didn’t say anything, he just stood there, silently watching.

“Let’s keep going,” Scythe said. “Hate to keep White-eyes waiting.”

That night, after they had made camp and Keegan was snoring away, Jerrod came over and stood beside Scythe while she was on watch.

“What?” she said, not turning her head to look at him.

“That was an interesting conversation you had with Keegan.”

“One you weren’t supposed to be part of.”

“You know this affects all of us,” he reminded her. “And you were the one who warned me that Keegan’s feelings for you could make things more difficult.”

Scythe shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong.”

To her surprise, Jerrod said, “I’m starting to think that as well.

“You and Keegan share not only a destiny but a deep and powerful bond,” he continued. “Whatever happens, I think it will be better if we all accept that.

“Together you have accomplished far more than either of you could have alone.”

“Who knows,” Scythe answered. “Maybe all of us will get out of this alive.”

But though she spoke the words, in her heart Scythe still didn’t believe they were true.

For several days, Vaaler and his motley army of followers had marched steadily northwest. The closest of the Free Cities was Torian but he doubted he would find support there: Before joining with him, Keegan and the others had narrowly avoided execution within its walls. And during their escape, Keegan had rained fire down upon the city, nearly burning it to the ground.

Torian chose to side with the Order,
Vaaler reminded himself.
They got what they deserved.

The next closest city was Cheville. During his history lessons growing up, Vaaler had learned that Cheville was one of the most outspoken opponents of the last Purge—anti-Order sentiment ran deep within its people.

At least it used to.

Lord Bonchamps, the most recently elected ruler, had only taken office two years ago and Vaaler knew little about him or his policies. But Cheville was the largest and most influential of the five Free Cities; if he could convince them to take action against the Order, it was very likely the others would fall in line.

The road ahead twisted and turned, winding its way through the rolling hills that marked the territory just south of the city. Their journey would have been quicker on horseback, but Shalana and her honor guard had never learned to ride—horses weren’t a luxury the Frozen East could afford.

We never would have found enough horses for everyone anyway,
Vaaler reminded himself.

He no longer had any idea of the exact numbers in his band though they had swelled to several hundred. In addition to those who had volunteered to fight with him, they had been picking up entire families during their march toward Cheville. A rumor had flown ahead of them, claiming that Lord Bonchamps was taking in refugees. Faced with the prospect of staying in their undefended homes, many had chosen to join Vaaler’s retinue as it passed by their towns.

His force was so large now that he had to pick a dozen or so of the more experienced among them to serve as his lieutenants. He would have preferred to assign the task to his honor guard, but they only spoke Verlsung, making it impossible for them to communicate with the bulk of his army.

It wasn’t just horses they lacked, either. The families who’d joined him had brought many of their treasured household possessions with them, carrying their lives on their backs. But encumbered with their material wealth, they hadn’t thought to bring provisions. Food was running short, and it was getting difficult to find enough freshwater on the journey despite the rivers and streams that wound their way throughout the fertile Southlands.

Vaaler couldn’t blame the refugees; he’d seen what they were fleeing in Othlen and the towns around it. These were simple folk who just wanted to find somewhere they could be safe. But he was worried about what would happen if Lord Bonchamps refused to take them in.

We’ll have our answer soon enough,
he thought, as they crested a small hill and the city came into view.

The walls of Cheville were thirty feet tall and made from marble that had a distinct pinkish hue. The reflected color made it look as if the rising sun was shining on the city even though it was midday.

A handful of spires and domes on the city’s largest buildings peeked over the pink walls, but Vaaler was more interested in the massive city gates. In a few miles the road they were following would bring them to Cheville’s main entrance, and Vaaler had expected to see a steady line of visitors coming and going into the bustling metropolis.

The gates, however, were closed. He glanced over at Shalana and saw she had noticed it, too.

“Not the welcome we were hoping for,” she said.

“It’s probably just a precaution,” Vaaler said. “By now they must have gotten word that we’re coming. The City Lord probably just thought it was safer to seal the gates until they meet with us and learn our intentions.”

“Maybe we should stop here and send a small delegation ahead to parley with them,” she suggested. “To make us seem less threatening.”

It was a good idea, so Vaaler raised his hand and called a halt. His order was repeated and relayed through the ranks by his newly appointed lieutenants. Then he waved his hand and called Darmmid over.

The ranting lunatic Vaaler had encountered when they first met was gone, exorcised when Keegan’s imaginary curse had been dispelled. No doubt there were lingering emotional scars from what he had suffered, but he no longer seemed like a dangerous madman.

Still, Vaaler wasn’t about to simply turn him loose. But instead of keeping him as a prisoner, he’d decided to name Darm as one of his honor guard. The appointment was purely ceremonial as he wasn’t given any kind of weapon. Yet it seemed appropriate, given his strange connection to Keegan.

And it seems to be helping,
Vaaler noted. Responsibility, duty, and a designated chain of command seemed to be exactly what the recovering soldier needed.

Darm hustled over in response to Vaaler’s wave, snapping off a brisk salute and standing at attention as he awaited his orders—the model of a perfect soldier.

“Tell the lieutenants to make camp,” he said. “Shalana and I are going on ahead to meet with the city officials.”

“Yes, sir!” he barked before rushing off to fulfill his duties.

“I can’t believe the change that’s come over him,” Shalana noted. “Was his madness really just a creation of his own imagination?”

“That, plus a lack of food and water and the stress of seeing his entire company slaughtered,” Vaaler suggested.

“I’d like to bring our honor guard with us,” Shalana said.

“I can think of no one better to be at my side during a battle,” Vaaler objected, “but even they won’t be able to save us from an entire city if things go wrong.”

“Appearances are important,” Shalana reminded him. “Your words will carry a lot more weight if you meet the City Lord flanked by a dozen fiercely loyal warriors.

“And there’s no point leaving them here to watch over the troops. Not when none of them speak the language.”

“Good point,” Vaaler conceded. “I guess they’ll be coming with us, then.”

It didn’t take long for them to get ready. Once Vaaler was confident the rest of his army was secure, he, Shalana and his Eastern honor guard headed off alone toward the imposing gates set into the pink walls.

When they were still half a mile away, they heard a loud blare of trumpets coming from the city. The massive gates began to grind and slowly swung wide, revealing a score of armed cavalry. Behind them were at least fifty foot soldiers, each wearing a doublet bearing Cheville’s official crest: the morning sun rising over a walled city.

At the head of the company was a dour-looking man of at least seventy, with a long white moustache that hung down an inch below his chin.

“Jendarme Lamette,” Vaaler whispered to Shalana. “He was appointed head of the city guard forty years ago when his brother became City Lord.”

“Is his brother still in charge?”

“City Lords are only elected to ten-year terms,” Vaaler told her. “And by law anyone who has served cannot run again. But every incoming ruler since then has kept Jendarme on as Captain of the Guard. He’s a legend in the Free Cities.”

The old man raised a hand and the cavalry charged forth from the gate.

“I’m starting to have second thoughts about this plan,” Shalana muttered.

“Hold your ground but keep your weapons lowered,” Vaaler called out, knowing the clan warriors could react violently to even the slightest provocation.

The riders continued to bear down on them, breaking off less than ten yards away to encircle them in an impressive display of horsemanship.

Jendarme had stayed back during the charge, but now he spurred his steed forward. Two of the riders in the circle nudged their horses, who stepped smartly aside to make room for the captain to pass.