Chaos Unleashed (6 page)

These are not ordinary mortals we face,
Orath reminded himself, his batlike features twisting into a scowl.
These are the Children of Fire. Daemron’s essence flows through them. They have been touched by a God.

He reached the city walls unnoticed. At the base he pressed himself close against the stone face and dug in with the claws of his long, thin fingers. The rock cracked and crumbled into dust at his touch, making holds he could use to lift himself upward, one hand at a time. He scaled the twenty-foot wall in seconds, a slithering shadow, then dropped down over the other side and onto the empty street.

Torches set high into the wall every hundred feet illuminated the surroundings, but only barely. He paused just long enough to be sure no one had noticed his entrance, but there was no hue and cry. The city was as still and silent as death itself.

Tilting his head to the side, he breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating aroma. Almost ten days had passed since the Crown’s power had been unleashed, but the scent was still thick in the air—just as it had been in Ferlhame in the aftermath of the battle with the dragon.

No, it’s different here. Clean. Pure.

The dragon’s essence had polluted the Danaan capital. And as powerful as the Chaos Spawn had been, the creature’s might was merely a faint echo of what was trapped within each Talisman. Here in Callastan, he only sensed the Crown.

Chaos in its most elemental form. The very substance of creation.

The Talisman was still here; he could feel it calling to him. Thrumming vibrations ran through the earth beneath his feet and up through his bones, faint but impossible to ignore.

If I can feel it, I can find it. Track the call to its source.

Orath paused, and a question sprang unbidden to his mind.

Even if you find it, then what?

Whoever controlled the Crown now—most likely the same young woman Raven and the Crawling Twins had tracked across the width and breadth of the mortal world—clearly had the power to snuff out his existence. Using the Talisman to destroy him might be the final blow that brought the Legacy tumbling down, but Orath had no desire to be a martyr. What value was there in helping Daemron return if he wasn’t around to reap the benefits of his loyal service?

Finding the Crown, he realized, was the least of his worries. Seizing it without being blasted into oblivion was a much greater challenge. Particularly now that he was the only one of his kind left.

In Ferlhame, he’d tried to recruit the Danaan Queen to his cause. But even with her army under his control, he’d failed to claim the Ring. He’d underestimated his opposition and been forced to sacrifice Drago and Gort. And in the end, he’d still been forced to flee, empty-handed. This time he needed another plan. A better plan.

What would Daemron do?

As calculating and cunning as Orath was, he knew his master was even more so.

The Legacy is thin and fading. It might be possible to contact him.

Such a ritual would be both dangerous and costly, but perhaps it was also necessary.

From a nearby street he heard the sound of voices drawing near, and he cut off his internal debate. Pressing himself up against a nearby wall, his form melted into the shadows and he stood completely still.

A few seconds later two figures emerged from around the corner, speaking softly. Even in the dim light of the torches, Orath’s yellow eyes could clearly make them out. The larger of the two was a young man. He wore a padded leather vest and an ill-fitting helmet, and a short club dangled from his belt. The second was a young woman, her tight-fitting clothes clean but worn. Her blouse was cut low, exposing ample cleavage.

“That’s more than I make in a week, darling,” the soldier pleaded, his tone both teasing and desperate.

“I’m worth every coin,” she answered, her husky voice trailing off into a suggestive laugh.

The pair passed only a few feet away from his hiding place, completely unaware of the Minion lurking in the darkness. Once they were by, he emerged silently from the shadows and fell into step close behind them.

“C’mon, darling. Don’t you have a discount for Enforcers? We’re working hard to keep the city safe.”

“Every man and his brother’s an Enforcer now,” she purred. “I start giving you all discounts and I’ll be out of business.”

Orath had decided the necessity of trying to reach his liege was worth the risk. He needed Daemron’s council. But to power the ritual he’d use to reach across the Chaos Sea and make contact, he’d need a sacrifice to draw on.

“What if I give you half now?” the man offered. “And the rest next week?”

“By next week I might have joined the Enforcers myself,” the girl countered. “Won’t need your money then.”

Drawing on the Chaos flowing through his veins, Orath uttered a single word to focus his power. Hearing him, the girl spun around.

Her eyes went wide on seeing the inhuman creature stalking her, and her mouth opened wide to scream. But Orath reached out with a single clawed finger, his arm striking like a snake, and touched her shoulder. Her features froze in place, the scream dying in her throat as every muscle in her body was instantly paralyzed.

The man was slower to react; he had only half turned by the time Orath’s touch left him immobile.

Orath took a moment to savor the helpless terror of his victims, the girl’s dark brown eyes darting back and forth in confusion and fear. Extending his arms out at a forty-five-degree angle, Orath let his wrists go limp so his long fingers dangled loose and free. He twiddled the fingers of his right hand and the girl’s body shuddered. Then she slowly lifted her right foot and pivoted on her left leg so that she was facing away from him, a barely audible whimper of pain escaping her lips as she did so.

Wiggling the digits of his left hand, Orath forced the soldier to also turn away from him. Though physically stronger, he offered less resistance to the unspoken command than his companion.

Fingers flickering and dancing, Orath marched his puppets quickly down a side street where the shadows swallowed all three of them up.

J
ERROD GLANCED UP
at the sky, studying the fading light as dusk approached. The farther west he, Keegan, and Scythe traveled, the stronger his supernatural awareness became. They had left the Frozen East behind and crossed over into the Southlands, where he could once again feel the faint echoes of Chaos in the firmament of the mortal world that fueled his abilities. Yet though his Sight had returned, it couldn’t block out the light and color bombarding his functioning eyes, and the double vision was still disorienting enough to leave him feeling queasy and off-balance.

Closing his eyes did little to solve the problem. Keeping his lids shut wasn’t natural; it was something he had to think about constantly, and it drew focus away from his other perception. And even closed, his eyes still registered changes in the intensity of the outside world’s light, drawing even more focus away from his otherworldly perception.

Even so, he was able to reach out far enough ahead of their path to sense they weren’t going to find any traces of Southern civilization before nightfall. He’d been hoping they would at least stumble across an isolated farmhouse today, but Keegan’s strength was fading and Jerrod had been forced to slow their pace to keep the young wizard from overexerting himself.

“We’ll make camp here,” the monk declared.

Nobody spoke as they settled in and finished off the last of the rations. As they’d been doing for the past week, both Jerrod and Scythe gave most of their share to Keegan.

He’s so frail,
Jerrod noticed.
If we don’t find a farm or village soon, he might starve to death.

The idea that the destiny of one of the Children of Fire could be snuffed out by something so mundane as a lack of food was unsettling.

After all we’ve overcome, and all we’ve lost, is this how it ultimately ends?

Jerrod shook his head and tried to push his doubts to the back of his mind. Keegan could still last a few more days before things became desperate.

“I’ll take the first watch,” the monk said, eager to focus on something else.

Neither of the others replied aloud though Keegan gave him a weary nod. Exhausted by the day’s travel, the frail young mage fell asleep within minutes of bedding down. Scythe lay beside him, still and quiet. But even though most of Jerrod’s focus was on the dark perimeter of their camp, he sensed she was still awake.

Once more doubts began to creep into the monk’s head. But this time it was Scythe he fixated on.

Keegan’s right; she’s not herself anymore. It’s like the spark of Chaos has been extinguished.

It had taken him a long time to see the truth, but at last he understood how important Scythe was. Now he finally understood the true meaning of the prophecy of the Burning Savior.

Jerrod wasn’t a true prophet; he had trained as an Inquisitor while still a loyal servant of the Pontiff. But the prophets weren’t the only members of the Order who dreamed; they were just the most proficient at it. Jerrod’s visions were rare, and they usually had little import. Yet, twenty years ago, there had been one image so powerful it had shaped the course of his life over the next two decades.

A horde of Chaos Spawn, stampeding across the plains of the mortal world. At their head, Daemron the Slayer, driving his army ever forward, slaughtering and burning everything in their path. And then a figure rises from the ground to stand against them—a mortal surrounded by the blue flames of Chaos, features completely hidden by the smoke and fire.

He wasn’t the only one who dreamed of the Burning Savior. Ezra—his mentor—had seen it, too. And he had carefully gathered others who had supported their cause; heretics who realized the Order had been wrong. Daemron would not be stopped by the Pontiff’s efforts to limit and control Chaos. The Legacy was fading, and the Slayer’s return was inevitable. The only hope was to find someone strong enough to stand against their ancient foe, one powerful enough to use Daemron’s own Talismans against him, just as he had used them against the Old Gods.

Or so we thought. If only we had known.

For a while, Jerrod had believed Keegan to be the Burning Savior. Now, however, he understood why the identity of the figure in his visions had been obscured. There wasn’t one savior, but three—just as there were three Talismans. It made perfect sense now that he knew what he was looking for. Keegan and Scythe were both born beneath the Blood Moon. They were both touched by Chaos. They were bound by it, a force so powerful it had inexorably drawn them together from the distant corners of the mortal realm. Now that Jerrod knew the truth, it was impossible not to see it.

Cassandra was born under a Blood Moon, too. When I brought her to Rexol as a little girl, he’d said she had more potential than any apprentice he had ever known.

The Order had taken her from Rexol before the mage could train her. Looking back, Jerrod understood that wasn’t a setback but rather another piece falling into place. If Cassandra hadn’t been inducted into the Order, she never would have come into possession of the Crown. It was almost as if the Talisman had drawn her in.

Chaos calls to its own. Like calling to like.

Now all he had to do was bring the three of them together. His path was clear.

And then what?
a small voice wondered in the back of his head.
Do they just sit and wait for the Legacy to crumble so they can face Daemron when he returns? Do they do something to bring the Legacy crashing down so they can destroy him? Or was the vision more symbolic? Are they really supposed to meet Daemron on the field of battle, or are they supposed to stop Daemron by restoring the Legacy?

Jerrod ignored the contrarian voice. Ezra had once told him it was okay to have doubts. Faith didn’t give you all the answers. Not all at once. But if you were true in your beliefs, it would eventually show you the way.

Keep to the path and it will eventually all become clear. Cassandra is in Callastan. All I need to do right now is make sure Keegan and Scythe get there, too.

But would that really be enough? He didn’t know what the future held, but he was certain they’d need Scythe to be more like her old self before all this was over. They needed her to get past Norr’s death. And even though he still felt it was dangerous to bring the subject up with the volatile Islander, the consequences of doing nothing could be far worse.

“Scythe,” he whispered, though Keegan probably wouldn’t wake even if he shouted. “I know you’re awake. Come with me. We need to talk.”

The young woman rolled out of her blankets and stood up, instinctively picking up the Sword. She carried it casually in her right hand, mutely following Jerrod until they were out of Keegan’s earshot. Her complete lack of protest only added to his concerns about her state—in the past she would at least have demanded to know more before she bothered to accompany him.

Jerrod hesitated, uncertain how to broach the delicate subject of Norr’s death and how she was—or wasn’t—coping. In the end, he decided the best option was simply to be blunt.

“I’m worried about you, Scythe. So is Keegan.”

He paused, but when she didn’t respond or react he continued.

“Since Norr’s death you don’t seem like yourself.”

“You want me to try and attack you again?” she asked, her voice a dull monotone. “Would you be happier if I was ranting and raving instead of going along with your plan?”

“You never seemed to believe in my visions before,” Jerrod noted.

“Now I do. You finally made me understand that I’m a part of this. Congratulations.”

Her voice was still flat and lifeless, but her bitterness was clear. It actually gave Jerrod a glimmer of hope.

“You’re part of this because Chaos flows in your blood,” he reminded her. “At least, it used to. Now you’ve become passive. Withdrawn. Apathetic.”

“You think I’ve given up?”

For the first time, there was a hint of emotion in her words, and the hand carrying Daemron’s blade twitched ever so slightly. Encouraged by her reaction, Jerrod pressed on.

“I’m worried you may be doing this for the wrong reasons.”

“Do the reasons even matter?” she wondered. “As long as I do what needs to be done, right?”

“I’ve known martyrs before,” Jerrod said. “In some cases they were so eager to throw their lives away for a cause that they did more harm than good.”

“Don’t worry,” Scythe said with a rueful smile. “I won’t throw my life away until the time is right.”

“I’m hoping that time won’t ever come,” Jerrod said.

“Keegan might believe we can save the world and all live happily ever after,” she replied, “but I think we both know better.”

Jerrod hesitated before replying, choosing his next words very carefully.

“Keegan isn’t the only one who believed you can both survive this. So did Norr. He wouldn’t want you to throw your life away now.”

In an instant Scythe’s blade was at his throat, her muscles quivering with barely suppressed rage. She moved so fast Jerrod didn’t even have a chance to react.

“Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “Norr’s gone! What he wanted doesn’t matter anymore!”

She pressed the edge of Daemron’s Sword up against his throat, drawing a tiny line of blood. Jerrod stood perfectly still, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop her.

“The next time you try to use Norr’s death to manipulate me,” she warned, “Keegan won’t be the only one missing a hand.”

She stepped away and let the Sword drop back to her side.

“I’m not the one you should be worrying about, anyway,” she added, reverting back to her emotionless monotone. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stop the Slayer. Can you say the same thing about Keegan?”

“He has more courage than you suspect,” Jerrod insisted. He could feel the thin line of blood welling up on his throat but didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“If Keegan must sacrifice himself to save the world,” the monk continued, “I believe he will do the right thing.”

“What if the cost is even higher?” Scythe demanded. “What if he has to sacrifice me?”

Her question caught Jerrod off guard. Keegan’s feelings for Scythe were obvious. If he had to choose between saving her or fulfilling his destiny, would he hesitate? Would he make the wrong choice?

“I won’t have any problem sacrificing for the cause,” Scythe continued when he didn’t reply. “Me, you, Keegan—whatever it takes. You just make sure Keegan feels the same way.”

Jerrod nodded once, acknowledging the truth of what she said.

“I’ll take over the watch,” Scythe told him. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to think about.”

Andar walked quickly through the streets of Ferlhame, making mental note of the state of repairs and reconstruction as he passed. It would be years—maybe even decades—before all of the buildings that had fallen during the dragon’s attack were rebuilt, but though there was still a long way to go, it was heartening to see that progress was being made.

Though we would be much farther along if the Queen hadn’t led us into a war with the Eastern clans.

The High Sorcerer frowned; though accurate, those kinds of thoughts were counterproductive now. The Danaan people were still reeling from their crushing defeat, and many were bitter and resentful over what had happened—too many lives had been lost, and they had nothing to show for it. Despite this, however, Andar knew they still believed in their monarch. They still wanted guidance; they still wanted to follow her down the proper path.

But will she lead them?

As he reached the gates of the Royal Manse, the guards stepped aside and bowed. It wasn’t long ago that Andar had been a prisoner accused of treason. But in the aftermath of their retreat from the battle at the Giant’s Maw, much had changed.

During most of the campaign against the Eastern Barbarians, Rianna had been under the spell of Orath—the vile creature that had raised the ogre from the Black Lake. But the Minion had fled the battlefield when the tide of battle turned, and with his disappearance his hold over the Queen had been broken…though at a great cost.

Rianna had been unconscious, her mind withdrawing into itself once Orath released his hold, unable to wake or respond. As a result, the war council—five of the Queen’s most trusted advisers—had invoked a state of regency so they could serve in her stead. As their first acts they had pardoned Andar, restored his position as High Sorcerer, and elected him as their leader. Even Lormilar, the man who had been named High Sorcerer after Andar had been deposed, voted for him.

They’re good people. They only want what is best for the Danaan.

Or maybe, a small part of Andar’s mind whispered, the direness of their situation had simply forced them to put aside any thoughts of political advancement or self-interest. Far too many Danaan had died in the final battle, but many more had been in danger of perishing during the long journey back to their homeland. The Frozen East had lived up to its name, as winter had buried the plains under snow and ice. Supplies had been critically low, and many of the troops who had survived the battle were badly wounded. Even those who were healthy had been exhausted and demoralized.