Chaos Unleashed (8 page)

“We don’t have time to bury them,” Scythe chimed in.

“If we press on, we are unlikely to come across another farm before dark,” Jerrod warned. “And the Order could still be patrolling the surrounding area. Finding another safe place to stop could be difficult.”

“Then we keep walking through the night,” Keegan insisted. “Right, Scythe?” he added, looking for support.

“It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

At least she answered me. A few days ago she would have just shrugged.

“Then we keep going,” Keegan insisted.

After a brief hesitation, Jerrod nodded, and they set off again, heading west and giving the farm a wide berth.

T
HE NIGHT SKY
was clear and the moon was three-quarters full, giving the three of them just enough light to press onward.

Really it’s only Keegan who needs to see,
Scythe thought to herself. Jerrod was able to call on his otherworldly perception, and since she’d taken up Daemron’s Sword, Scythe had found her own senses acutely heightened. Like some nocturnal predator, the faint light of the stars was all she needed to make out their surroundings.

The Sword was strapped diagonally across her back, held in place by a thin cloth binding around the blade just below the hilt and another near the tip. The bindings were secure enough to keep the weapon from slipping loose as she walked, but she knew if she needed to free it in a hurry, the Sword could slice through them with minimal effort.

Scythe honestly hadn’t cared whether they stayed at the burned-out farmhouse for the night or if they kept going. But once the decision was made to press on, she realized she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, and for that she was grateful. The pain of dreaming she was with Norr, then waking to find it wasn’t true, was something she didn’t need.

“We can’t keep going,” Jerrod suddenly declared, drawing Scythe out of her introspective musings. “It’s time to stop for the night. Gather our strength. We’ll need it tomorrow if we run into the Inquisitors who burned down the farm.”

This time, Keegan didn’t offer any objection.

He’s almost out on his feet,
Scythe realized. He was slumped forward, his arms wrapped around Rexol’s staff to keep himself upright.

The monk had obviously been paying more attention to Keegan than she had. For a brief moment she felt a pang of guilt, then pushed it away.

It’s not my job to babysit him.

She couldn’t really blame him for his weakness. Jerrod was sustained through the Order’s ability to draw on their inner reserves of Chaos, and somehow the Sword was giving her extra reserves of energy. Apparently, the Ring he carried didn’t offer the same benefit.

Jerrod was helping Keegan now, lowering the exhausted young mage gently down to the ground.

Maybe I could let him carry the Sword tomorrow,
Scythe thought as she dug the blanket out of her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders.

But she discarded the idea as quickly as it had come to her. Letting Keegan carry the Talisman for a day or two probably wouldn’t be much use. The physical augmentations Scythe now enjoyed hadn’t taken effect immediately; they’d built up slowly as she’d carried the weapon, its heft on her back and shoulders becoming more comfortable and familiar with each passing day.

And if Jerrod is right, the Sword won’t work as well for him as it does for me anyway. He said we all have Chaos in our blood, but it manifests itself in different ways. Maybe I’m the only one who can call on the full power of the Sword.

On some level Scythe knew she was rationalizing, coming up with reasons to hold on to the glorious weapon. But logically, there was no reason to give it to Keegan. If they ran into trouble on reaching the village, what good would it do for him to have it? She doubted Keegan even knew how to hold a sword properly. And if things got bad, he’d call on the power of the Ring, anyway.

Assuming he still can. He seems so frail right now. It’s almost like every time he uses the Ring to unleash magic on the world, a piece of him burns away. Even carrying it seems to be slowly draining him.

Scythe suddenly felt like she was teetering on the edge of some great revelation or understanding—something profound and critically important. And then she sensed figures in the darkness, closing in on them from all sides, and the moment was gone.

“Inquisitors!” Jerrod hissed, his own awareness identifying the threat at virtually the same time as Scythe.

How did they get so close to us without his noticing?
Scythe wondered, leaping to her feet and tossing her blanket aside, even as Jerrod did the same. Keegan reacted more slowly though he did manage to gain his feet.

“You are outnumbered,” a voice called out from the darkness. “And surrounded. Surrender is your only option.”

“How many?” Keegan asked, peering around helplessly in the darkness to try to get a glimpse of the enemy. Rexol’s staff was clutched firmly in his good hand, but he wasn’t leaning on it for support anymore. Now he held it like a weapon at the ready.

“Two Inquisitors,” Jerrod said, laying out the odds. “And six ordinary soldiers. Mercenaries, probably.”

The figures had drawn close enough for Scythe’s keen eyes to make them out. The two Inquisitors stood in front of them, blocking their way forward. Two soldiers had circled behind them to cut off their retreat, with two more on the left and the last two on the right.

But they can’t see any better than Keegan,
Scythe realized.
They’re basically just holding their positions. The Inquisitors are the only real threat!

“Protect him,” she said, grabbing Keegan by the shoulder and shoving him toward Jerrod as she sprang into action.

Reaching back over her shoulder she seized the Sword’s hilt. A quick flick of her wrist severed the cloth bindings holding it in place, and she whipped the weapon up and around in front of her as she charged straight at the two Inquisitors.

Someone shouted at her to stop, but she wasn’t even sure who it was. The warning was lost as a glorious burst of adrenaline surged through her body.

The Inquisitors were raising their staves to meet her charge, but their movements seemed awkward and slow, as if they were underwater. In contrast, Scythe felt herself moving with an easy, fluid grace.

In an instant she had closed the gap between them. She brought Daemron’s Sword around in a wide, waist-high arc. The first Inquisitor managed to stumble back out of range, his retreat desperate and frantic. The other tried to parry the blow with his staff, but the Talisman sliced clean through the wood and opened a deep gash in his side. He grunted and doubled over, instinctively throwing himself down and to the side as he tried to roll clear of a second, potentially lethal blow. Before Scythe had a chance to finish him, however, his partner recovered enough to leap forward with a counterattack.

He jabbed the butt of his staff toward Scythe’s face, but he still seemed to be moving at half speed. She calmly tilted her head to one side, allowing the staff to pass harmlessly by her head, mere inches away from her eye. At the same time, Scythe shifted her weight from one foot to the other and snapped her hand back in the opposite direction, bringing the Sword around in a backhanded slash meant to slice off her opponent’s leg at the knee. At the last instant he spun out of the way, and instead of amputating his limb the weapon merely cut a long but superficial gash in his thigh.

He’s faster than his partner,
Scythe noted.
But not fast enough.

The other Inquisitor was coming at her again now, his highly disciplined mind allowing him to block out the pain of the wound in his side. His staff twirled and spun in an attempt to disorient her, but instead of a constant blur of unpredictable motion Scythe saw the attack as a series of deliberate and laborious movements.

When he finally struck at her, she slapped the staff aside with an almost casual disdain. She could have finished him had she chosen to do so, but she wasn’t worried about this one anymore: She barely even considered him a threat. Instead, her focus was on the soldiers in the darkness who were closing in on Keegan and Jerrod.

If the Inquisitors seemed slow to her heightened perceptions, then the soldiers appeared to be almost glacial: like statues struggling to come to life. The two closest to Keegan and Jerrod shambled forward, and Jerrod stepped up to meet them, dropping into a fighting crouch.

He’s moving more slowly than the Inquisitors,
Scythe noted.

Clearly he was still hampered by the strange double vision of his restored eyes. But he was still fast enough to send the two armed men stumbling backward with a pair of roundhouse kicks.

The more dangerous of the two men she was facing had launched another assault. There was a desperate fury in this pass, he was throwing everything he had at her. His staff whistled through the air in a series of quick slashes and strikes, interspersed with spinning, leaping kicks as he tried to overwhelm her. Scythe was forced to retreat for several steps, ducking, dodging, and parrying the blows as she picked up on the unconscious rhythm of her foe’s movements.

And then she struck, a single forward stab of the blade so quick and precise that the monk never even had a chance to defend himself. The Sword plunged through his robes and into his chest, penetrating the flesh and slipping perfectly between his ribs to pierce his heart. A flick of her wrist withdrew the blade as easily as it had gone in and the Inquisitor collapsed at her feet.

The surviving Inquisitor was still coming at her, but Scythe ignored him. Behind her, the rest of the soldiers had finally joined the fray, and she spun around and raced in the opposite direction to help her companions.

The six mercenaries had formed a tight circle around Jerrod and Keegan, warily feinting and probing at their cornered foes as they tried to work up the courage to attack. Had they all charged at once, Scythe realized, they probably could have taken Jerrod down. But they were hesitant and unsure.

Is that just normal fear and respect for a dangerous foe? Or does Daemron’s Sword undermine the confidence and morale of its enemies?

She didn’t have time to ponder the question. Keegan had let Rexol’s staff fall to the ground and was fumbling for the Ring on its chain around his neck, the young wizard preparing to unleash Chaos against his enemies. But she knew they didn’t need magic to win this battle, and she didn’t want to face the consequences of any backlash he might unwittingly cause.

Scythe fell on the soldiers like a savage wind, and the euphoria she’d felt earlier overwhelmed her. Surrendering herself to the power of the Talisman, she stopped trying to consciously control it and instead let it become an extension of her will. The blade seemed to move with a mind of its own, and she felt herself responding to it instead of the other way around. The padded vests and thin mail shirts offered little protection as Scythe carved the soldiers up; in a matter of seconds all six were down.

Keegan hadn’t even had time to put the Ring on his finger. Hampered by his missing hand, he’d just barely managed to slip it off the chain hanging from his neck. He was holding it in his fist, staring dumbfounded at the carnage he’d just witnessed.

“The Inquisitor!” Jerrod called out, and Scythe snapped her attention back to the last remaining enemy.

He had given up any thoughts of victory; instead, he was trying to flee, hoping that the night could hide him from the she-devil who had slaughtered the others. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have been able to escape. But Scythe was no longer ordinary. Despite his head start, it took her less than thirty seconds to catch up and finish him off.

As she stood over his corpse, a crushing sense of emptiness fell on her. With the battle done, the euphoria vanished, leaving nothing to fill the void. The sense of loss was unlike anything she’d ever felt before—even worse than the instant she’d watched Norr buried beneath an avalanche of ice and stone.

It hit her so hard she rocked back and nearly lost her balance. For an instant the only emotion she felt was despair, then—as suddenly as it had come—the feeling disappeared, leaving her with the familiar, numb-stricken grief she’d carried ever since Norr’s death.

Shaking her head, she turned and walked slowly back to Keegan and Jerrod. To her surprise, one of the soldiers was still alive. He lay on the ground, with Jerrod kneeling beside him, an expression of fear and pain etched on his hard, bearded features. His right arm was badly injured; the limb was bleeding profusely as the monk sought to staunch the flow of blood.

“Just let him die,” Scythe muttered.

“We can’t question him if he’s dead!” Jerrod snapped without looking up from his patient.

With an annoyed sigh, Scythe stepped forward and gently lay the flat of the blade on the man’s shoulder. He flinched away at the initial contact, his eyes wide and his teeth gritting against the pain of his wounds. And then he was bathed in a faint silver aura, and the fear and pain melted away. The arm stopped bleeding immediately, and a few seconds later the young man began to bend it at the elbow, staring in wonder at his own hand as he carefully flexed his fingers.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Scythe snorted and turned away, breaking the connection and snuffing out the silver light.

“You owe us your life,” Jerrod said, taking over. “Do you understand that?”

“I do,” he replied, though his tone was suspicious.

He’s older. Midthirties. Probably been a blade for hire for at least a decade.

“Why were the Inquisitors waiting here for us?” Jerrod demanded. “How did you know we’d be coming this way?”

“They saw you earlier. Coming toward the farmhouse.”