The Edge of Chaos (25 page)

“No!” Renfod cried out.

“What?” That was Beaugrat’s surprised voice. The blade pulled free, and Duvan slid to the stone floor. “He was going to kill you.”

“You are such a fool,” Renfod said. “Commander Vraith wanted him alive.”

Thick, warm liquid spilled from Duvan’s back and chest, spreading in a sticky pool under him. The thump of his heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out all else. Numbness, starting in his fingers and toes, spread up his arms and legs.

“So heal him,” Beaugrat said.

Duvan’s vision grew dim, the room darkening as if looking through a veil. This was the end, he knew. Was he ready?

“Do you think a healing spell is as simple as swinging your sword?” Renfod demanded. “He’ll be dead before I can start.”

No, not ready. How could anyone be ready for death? Duvan fought down panic and tried to welcome oncoming death. But his body bucked and gasped, spasmed uncontrollably, and struggled to breathe.

“I must join Commander Vraith now,” Renfod said. “I will have to deal you later. Clean up this mess!”

Then all went dark.

All went silent.

Duvan’s last sensation was the iron tang of his own blood in the back of his throat and its overpowering odor in his nose.

All went dead.

rocked inside his laboratory, Gregor felt his spellscar hum with wild magic in his skull as he focused on the cauldron in front of him. The musty tomes that lined the shelves along the walls had long since faded from his consciousness. He was no longer aware of the nickering candles in their sconces, smelling faintly of vanilla and sage.

Entranced, Gregor’s head resonated with the music of alchemy. Nothing else existed except the dark green, oily concoction bubbling away before him. Nothing else mattered except the slightly sweet scent drifting up from the cauldron.

Almost perfect. Almost there.

Gregor had been cooking his potion for what seemed like hours. He had no way to be sure how

much time had passed. His trance skewed his sense of time.

Just a hint more crushed plaguegrass, Gregor thought, and maybe a sprinkle of ground dragon claw. Yes, that was it. Gregor flicked these last ingredients into the pot and very carefully stirred the mixture.

Vibrating in his skull like an internal tuning fork, his spellscar knew the brew was exactly right. Tiny explosions of energy and pleasure burst in his head and cascaded down through his body. This was it; the elixir was perfect. Ready to serve.

For hours, Gregor had let his spellscar show him how to cook the potion. The scar revealed the secrets of the ingredients, helping him to predict what each component would do, what effect it would have on the mixture. And along the way, Gregor had used magic here and there, infusing the elixir with potency—just a tiny sprinkling that allowed the brew of magical and mundane elements to combine in a unique and powerful way.

Gregor delighted in his work. He rejoiced in the process of creating something potent and life-changing. Ever since hed been a child, he had loved what alchemy could accomplish. Ever since he had seen the utility and power for himself, Gregor had wanted to master it.

Just before his seventh birthday, Gregor had been travelling with Brother Velri, his mentor. They’d been approached by thieves, and Velri had told Gregor to hide in the rocks next to the narrow road.

Too terrified to make a sound, Gregor had watched as the older monk fought the small band. Though Brother Velri’s martial skills took down one of the robbers, the band managed to stab him. They robbed Velri and left him for dead. When the thieves had fled, Gregor had come out of hiding to find the elder monk bleeding and on the verge of death. Velri had been stabbed many times, and thieves had taken

any poultices and bandages along with his backpack.

Gregor had been certain that the man was going to die. The two of them were far from the nearest healer.

Velri removed a small pouch of powder from his boot. He told young Gregor to find some water and fill the pouch to the mark, about halfway up. Gregor ran to the small stream that flowed near the road, filled the pouch as instructed, and returned to an ailing Velri, who was nearly dead from his wounds.

Gregor watched as the monk muttered a short incantation over the pouch, mixed it with his finger, and quaffed the entire contents. A few minutes later, Gregor had looked on in awe as Brother Velri stood up and brushed the dirt from his tunic.

Alchemy had saved Velri’s life. And while Gregor eventually far surpassed Velri’s skill, it was the elder monk’s demonstration of alchemy’s power that had inspired Gregor to pursue the arcane art.

Since he’d become spellscarred, Gregor’s brewing sessions had become long and exhausting. Still, he found them exhilarating as well. As he brewed each concoction, Gregor rode a building rush of excitement and pleasure from the first ingredient to the final product. And every time, in the glowing aftermath, satisfaction overwhelmed him.

The elixir in front of him was perfect, complete, and ready for consumption. And with that realization, Gregor found himself coming out of his trance. The chamber around him coalesced into existence again. His bookshelves and walls materialized into his consciousness. He could smell the distracting mustiness of the books and the faint vanilla and sage of the candles.

Gregor blinked, and his knees nearly buckled from sudden weakness. The resonating buzz from his spellscar had faded to nothing, but in its wake came a skull-splitting headache, like the prow of a ship cleaving his skull in twain.

His vision blurry from the pain, Gregor groped toward

his potion cabinet. He opened the doors and found the proper remedy, then took a swallow. The thin liquid slid down his throat, leaving a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. In a few minutes the pain would be manageable. Which was good— he didn’t have time to take his normal recovery period.

“Brother Velri!” he croaked, weakened. “Please come in now.”

Gregor became aware of the metallic sound of a key in the door lock. Velri—his one-time mentor, quite elderly but still alive and healthy—had been standing guard, making sure nobody disturbed Gregor during his brewing trance. Any interruption or distraction would have meant ruin for the entire batch.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the debilitating pain, Gregor breathed, “Velri, can you gather some others to help?” Gregor’s breath-scratched raw against his bitter throat, each intake of air sending waves of skull-cleaving pain through his head. “We need to move this cauldron to the Festival of Blue Fire.”

“Yes, Brother Gregor,” came the elder monk’s reply. “Are you feeling all right?”

Gregor could already sense the edge of the pain starting to recede. “I will be fine in a few moments,” he said. “Now, we’re in a hurry.”

The elder monk did not respond, but Gregor heard him shuffle off to collect some help.

Gregor concentrated on taking slow and even breaths. With each exhalation, he visualized a portion of the debilitating agony flowing out of him with the air. In with the fresh, out with the pain. And by the time Velri returned with three younger monks, Gregor’s headache had dampened to a dull throb.

Gregor took another deep breath before addressing his brethren. When he exhaled, he could think again.

“It’s imperative that we move quickly, my brothers,” he

said. “We cannot be late to the Festival of Blue Fire.” Gregor gestured toward the cauldron full of elixir. “Many pilgrims will die if they are not protected with a dose of this potion.

“We must be quick,” Gregor told them, “but also extremely careful. We cannot afford to spill the concoction.”

Adept and sure, his monks wasted no time. Soon, a metal lid covered the cauldron, the edges sealed with wax to prevent leakage during transport. They wrapped the covered pot with rope, tied tightly in case of jostling.

And finally, three of them carried the heavy pot to the stables and loaded the precious elixir into a small wagon. In a matter of minutes, the wagon had been hitched to a burrow and the whole group headed toward the Festival of Blue Fire.

Shortly, history would soon be made. Soon, Gregor would be taking the first step on the path to fulfilling his vision of a world without rampant spellplague. He smiled. That was a dream worth taking a risk for. A shiver of excitement danced down his spine, as he and his helpers made slow but steady progress away from the monastery.

Despite his personal dislike for Vraith, Gregor remained optimistic that it would all be worth it. The beauteous end result would completely justify the tactics they were forced to use to get there, for that result would be a restoration of order. That result was peace.

Peace was worth substantial risk.

****** ***

A chill wind slid across Slanya’s skin as Tyrangal teleported her, Kaylinn, and several others whom Kaylinn had enlisted to help rescue Duvan. The light of the afternoon sun winked out as the monastery courtyard vanished. The open, fresh air gave way to a smoky and stuffy enclosed corridor that smelled of tallow and soot.

1

The hot air made the dark space feel tight and claustro- . phobic. Slanya struggled to take slow, even breaths while 1 her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her heart raced with § anticipation, and sweat prickled on her brow from the heat. : But as she focused on her breathing, balance returned, and she found herself ready for a fight. J

“Duvan is in the room just down these stairs,” Tyran-1 gal whispered.
I scried him earlier. There are five or. six j people in the room, but Commander Accordant Vraith and j her entourage have left. We should be able to overcome J those remaining.” J

Taking a deep breath, Slanya took a firm grip on her I staff. She was ready. 3

“Hey! What are you—?” I

Slanya turned toward the sound, coming from a man in | chainmail climbing up the staircase toward them.

She watched as Tyrangal gestured with her hand, her J reaction extremely quick. Simultaneously, on the edge of | her vision, Slanya could swear that she saw something | flick out of Tyrangal’s mouth, stretch out and touch the J man on the forehead, then retract. But the whole thing J! happened in a blink of an eye, leaving Slanya wondering 1 what she’d seen. J

“We are friends,” came Tyrangal’s soothing contralto. I “We’re here to escort the prisoner to his cell.” j

The man’s face slackened from suspicion to understanding. He nodded. “All right,” he said. “Wonderful. Although I don’t think you will be needed.”

“We’ll be the ones to judge that,” Tyrangal said as she swept past the guard. She laid one hand on his head, whispered a quick spell, and the man collapsed.

They crept down the hallway to another door. Tyrangal | paused here.

“There’s a guard just inside,” Tyrangal said. “Leave herf tome.”

“We’ll try to find Duvan,” Slanya said, looking at Kaylinn, who nodded.

Slanya entered the room behind Tyrangal, who was enshrouded now in a shifting, prismatic aura and was difficult to see. A quick glance around the room showed Slanya a torch-lit dungeon, complete with stone walls and arched ceiling, iron chains and manacles, and several tables fitted with restraints for securing and interrogating prisoners.

To Slanya’s right, she caught sight of Duvan, lying slumped across the floor. He looked unconscious and there was an alarming amount of blood pooled under him. She hoped they weren’t too late.

“Kaylinn,” Slanya called. “There he is.”

the room was mostly empty of Order members, but those remaining had converged on Duvan. There was no sign of Vraith, but Slanya counted three others in addition to the guard. Four, if she included the genasi woman wrapping a bandage around her wrist.

Slanya recognized one of the Order guards—Beaugrat.

“You again!” Beaugrat stood beside Duvan, a bloody sword in his hand. “You should have gotten out when you had the chance.”

Beside Slanya, Kaylinn sent a wave of holy fire into two Order members clustering around Duvan’s body. They backed away as she approached, but not fast enough to avoid the blast. The genasi wizard dodged and started toward Tyrangal

Slanya spun her staff and leveled it at Beaugrat. She advanced on the warrior, moving quickly, but careful to remain steady and aware. She knew her opponent was an accomplished swordsman and was far stronger than he looked. She’d seen that when he had fought Duvan in the ruins outside Tyrangal’s mansion.

Beaugrat drew his huge sword and leveled it at Slanya. He held the weapon with both hands and swung it with

surprising deftness and agility. If he but hit her once, Slanya would be out of the fight.

Best not let him hit me then, she thought wryly.

Circling him, Slanya was aware of the escalating magical battle between Tyrangal and the genasi wizard. The woman’s aquamarine skin glowed, and the spellscar on her head seemed to flow with silver. She had manifested some sort of magical shield around herself—a clear bubble of power that absorbed and deflected Tyrangal’s fiery blasts. Inside, the genasi appeared to be unharmed.

Tyrangal’s attacks increased in power, but each one merely rolled off the protective bubble and scorched the walls and floor around her. The splash damage from their combat could easily fry everyone in the room.

Beaugrat stepped forward and brought his large sword down on Slanya—a quick strike, but one she easily dodged.

Breathe. Counterattack. Her staff glanced off his neck guard, but she followed it by stepping lightly to her left and cracking her staff against his hands. Perhaps she could loosen his grip on his weapon.

Her strike landed hard, and it was like hitting a stone wall. No give at all. Her staff vibrated in her grip, and she barely held on.

Beaugrat hardly seemed to notice.

As she sidestepped another swing, Slanya calculated her next strike. Her quickness meant that she could make several attacks to each of his. His head was the only part of him that was exposed. He was vulnerable there. She whipped her staff around and struck the big man in the side of head, just over his left ear.

Her staff was a blur, and Beaugrat had no time to dodge. The weapon shook in her hands as the blunt end thudded home. Slanya was gratified to see dark blood welling through Beaugrat’s blond hair.