“You’re not some naïve raw recruit,” Keegan countered. “You’re a mercenary. A hired blade. Why should what happened at the farm even bother you?”
“I’m not like that,” he protested. “I’ve seen my share of battles. Even killed a man once. But that was in a fair fight! I’m no murderer!”
“Is there some point to this?” Scythe wanted to know.
There was, but Keegan didn’t want to explain himself yet. He had an idea, but it wasn’t something he was willing to try unless he believed the man was worth saving.
“When Carthin started taking orders from the Pontiff, I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” the soldier continued. “I was always taught that the Order protected us. The Purge was supposed to keep us safe from dangerous witches and wizards. And then everything got out of control.”
“What do you mean?” Keegan asked.
“Once Carthin was named Justice, every noble who wasn’t in his pocket suddenly became a heretic. If they bowed down to him and swore allegiance, they’d escape the worst punishments. If not, he’d butcher them and take their holdings for his own.”
“You were actually surprised by this?” Scythe sneered.
“His army doubled in size as guards and men-at-arms from fallen houses swore allegiance to him. And the more troops he got, the worse the Purge became. Half the soldiers who joined were just bandits lured in by the promise of good pay for easy work.
“There were rumors. Nasty stuff. Innocent villages terrorized by bands of armed men claiming to serve the Justice. Homes looted and razed. Men killed and women violated.
“I thought the Order was trying to keep them in check. Until I saw what the Inquisitors did at the farm.”
“You’re a little old to just be figuring out that there are no good guys in the world,” Scythe mocked.
“No!” Keegan snapped. “That’s not true. Evil exists, but there are those who stand against it. Heroes. Like us!”
She raised an incredulous eyebrow, then simply shook her head and turned away.
“Heroes don’t kill unarmed prisoners,” Keegan added, this time speaking to Jerrod.
“A noble sentiment,” the monk admitted. “But our cause is too important simply to let this man loose. Especially with all he knows about us.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” he swore, struggling to his knees. “I don’t want anything more to do with the Order!”
“If we release you,” Keegan asked, “what will you do?”
The man blinked quickly and wet his lips with his tongue, his mind frantically searching for the right answer.
“The Free Cities,” he finally said. “I’ll go there. Torian has sworn allegiance to the Order, but none of the others have.”
“Good,” Keegan said with a nod. “If the Order lays siege to Callastan, we may need allies to help us break through their ranks. Go to the Free Cities and tell them what happened here. If enough people hear of the atrocities of the Purge, maybe they will do something about it.”
“I doubt one common soldier can convince the Free Cities to wage war against the Order,” Jerrod said.
“But it can’t hurt,” Keegan countered.
The soldier was nodding vigorously now. “Yes. Of course. I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll tell them anything you want!”
“I believe you,” Keegan said. “Because I am going to use Chaos magic to bind you to my will.”
—
Insanity, many in the Order believed, was an inevitable side effect of summoning Chaos; every mage, every wizard, every witch and conjurer would eventually succumb to madness.
Jerrod had never accepted this doctrine. He believed in the prophecy of the Burning Savior. He believed that mortals touched by Chaos could learn to control the fires of creation, harnessing the power to defeat Daemron upon his return.
He’d seen madness in Rexol, but he’d chalked it up to the mage’s own ambition and arrogance. When Rexol had placed the Crown atop his head, Jerrod had blamed hubris—not insanity—for his death.
Even so, he’d studied Keegan carefully ever since the young man had claimed the Ring, watching for some hint that he was becoming unhinged. The Talisman had taken a toll on him, but so far the effects had seemed primarily physical. But the decision to bind the soldier to his will was not that of a sound and rational mind.
“Keegan,” he said, choosing his words carefully so as not to upset him, “that would be a very bad idea.”
“No,” the wizard replied, his tone calm. “It makes perfect sense. Think about the vision I just had. Rexol bound Cassandra to his will. I can do the same with this man.”
“Did Rexol teach you this ritual?” Jerrod asked, hoping he could use logic to help Keegan see how dangerous and foolish his idea was. “Directing and controlling Chaos in such a specific way would be incredibly complicated.”
“I understand the principles well enough,” Keegan assured him. “And this would be much simpler than what Rexol did. He had to let his spell lie dormant for years, and the magic had to be powerful enough to make Cassandra betray her own kind.”
The young man’s voice was strong, his bearing supremely confident.
I’ve never seen him act like this. What’s gotten into him?
“All I have to do is place a mark on this soldier that will keep him from running to the Order the moment he leaves our sight. Something he has no intention of doing anyway. It will be an easy task.”
“Please,” the man said, crawling forward and groveling at Keegan’s feet. “You don’t have to put some kind of hex on me!”
“No harm will come to you,” the wizard assured him, though there was more threat than comfort in his tone. “As long as you keep your promise and go to the Free Cities.”
Jerrod glanced over at Scythe for support, but she seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation.
The monk grabbed Keegan’s good hand by the wrist, his grip hard enough to make Keegan wince.
Maybe the pain can snap him out of this!
“I know you do not want us to kill the prisoner, but this is not the answer! Chaos is not something to be trifled with!”
Keegan gave Jerrod a withering stare, and the older man loosened his grip, allowing the younger to shake his arm free.
“I am the savior of the mortal world,” Keegan proclaimed, his voice dripping with contempt. “Do you really doubt that I can do this?”
What’s wrong with him? Jerrod wondered. He’s haughty. Arrogant. Just like Rexol.
“I used my power to help Norr defeat Shalana in the duel ring,” he added.
“That was different,” Jerrod protested.
“No. Not if you think about it,” Keegan insisted. “I used my power and turned him into a champion to lead his people!”
No you didn’t! You plotted with Scythe and Vaaler to sabotage Shalana. You cheated her out of her victory. It was all just a trick!
Suddenly Jerrod understood what Keegan was actually trying to tell him. And he realized why the young man was acting so much like his mentor.
It’s a performance! He’s trying to scare and intimidate the prisoner!
“I am a Chaos mage!” Keegan declared. “Do you really doubt that I have the power to compel an ordinary soldier to obey me?”
“Forgive me,” Jerrod said, bowing and taking a step back. Now that he knew the game, he understood how to play his own role. “I would never doubt you, Keegan of the Gorgon Staff.”
The young man’s eyebrow twitched upward at the unexpected title, but fortunately the soldier at his feet didn’t notice.
“But I beg you to be careful,” the monk added. “If you summon too much Chaos, the mark you place on the prisoner will be unstable. If something goes wrong, it will explode and we will all be turned into ash.”
The soldier’s wide eyes were fixed on Jerrod as the monk slowly retreated, leaving him and Keegan alone beside the fire. Then his gaze snapped back to Keegan looming over him.
“You don
’t have to do this,” the man begged. “I won’t tell the Order about you. I promise! I’ll go to the Free Cities just like you said! I’ll tell them what happened here!”
Keegan slapped the man’s check with his good hand, though not particularly hard.
“There is no other way. I bind you to my will, or we execute you. This is your choice.”
The soldier swallowed, then nodded slowly.
Keegan began a soft chant. Jerrod had no idea if he was speaking actual words of power or pure gibberish. Then he reached into the fire pit and pulled out a small stick—charred, but still intact. To Jerrod’s surprise, the stick flickered with blue light and thin wisps of smoke curled up from the tip.
“Hold still,” Keegan commanded, slowly bringing the stick toward the still-kneeling prisoner.
The soldier clenched his eyes shut as Keegan touched the tip of the stick to his forehead. He let out a low moan and gritted his teeth as the mage made a few quick strokes, tracing out a simple circle with several diagonal slashes. Outlined in ash, the mark glowed faintly with a blue aura for several seconds.
“It burns,” the soldier whimpered though Jerrod suspected he was more scared than in pain.
Keegan’s voice rose higher, the strange words coming more quickly now. He spat them out, harsh and bitter, then cast the glowing stick aside.
The soldier opened his eyes, then closed them as Keegan reached out with the stump of his left hand and pressed it against the mark on the soldier’s brow. There was a brief but intense blue flash. Knocked off-balance, the soldier let out a yelp of surprise as he fell over backward.
“It is done!” Keegan declared, drawing his stump in a quick horizontal slash in front of his chest. “On your feet!”
The soldier scrambled to get up, then stood at attention before the young man.
“What’s your name?” Keegan demanded.
“Darm. Darmmid, I mean. But everyone calls me Darm.”
“You are bound to me now, Darmmid,” Keegan told him. “Do you understand what this means?”
The soldier nodded but didn’t speak.
“My mark is working its way inside you. It’s in your brain. Your guts. Can you feel it? Churning in your stomach? Making you sweat and tremble?”
“Yes,” the terrified soldier whispered, the power of suggestion making perspiration break out on his forehead. “I feel it.”
“This sickness will soon pass. But it will return if you even think about betraying me. It will grow stronger with each passing second. The Chaos will burn away your organs, melting them insider your body. You will die writhing in agony, and no one will be able to save you!”
The soldier moaned but didn’t speak.
“You are mine now, Darmmid,” Keegan pressed. “I own you. I am your master, and you will obey me!”
The soldier nodded.
“Say it!” Keegan barked.
“I will obey you, master! I promise!”
Satisfied, Keegan stepped back.
“Grab enough food for a week and go. The Free Cities are waiting for you.”
—
Scythe watched the terrified mercenary fumbling with the supply packs, his hands shaking so badly he could barely loosen the knots at the top. He glanced up once and saw her staring, then quickly averted his eyes.
A few minutes later he had somehow managed to gather what he needed, and he set off in the early-morning light. He was heading northwest, toward the Free Cities, but she wondered how long he would keep that path. Once he was out of earshot she made her way over to where Keegan and Jerrod were standing together, watching the prisoner’s rapid departure.
“Quite the performance,” Scythe remarked. “But sooner or later he’s going to realize it was all just a trick.”
“Maybe not,” Jerrod said. “The power of suggestion can be very powerful. His own mind will be working to maintain the illusion.
“Every time he feels anxious or nervous or even just sick to his stomach, he will blame it on Keegan, which will only reinforce his belief that he has been bound to the will of a Chaos mage.”
“You seem to know a lot about tricking people into believing things that aren’t real,” Scythe remarked. “Must be a religious thing.”
Jerrod didn’t rise to the bait.
“I’m more concerned about the Chaos you unleashed during this charade,” he said to Keegan. “It seemed an unnecessary risk.”
“I had to do something to make him believe the ritual was real,” the young man objected.
Scythe noticed that the arrogant tone he’d been using was gone from his voice; now that the performance was over he had returned to his typical self.
“Don’t worry,” Keegan assured the monk. “I was careful. But I thought it was worth the risk.”
“It wasn’t,” Scythe said. When Keegan looked at her in confusion, she continued, “This entire thing was pointless.”
“We spared a man his life,” Keegan reminded her.
“Did we? How far do you think he’ll get on his own? If the bandits don’t get him, the Order will. I’m guessing they treat deserters about the same as they treat heretics.
“And they’ll probably torture him first. Your fake spell won’t keep him quiet once they bring out the molten iron. He’ll break and tell them everything he knows about us.”
“At least I gave the man a chance!” Keegan snapped. “At least I tried to help him!”
“The only person you helped was yourself,” Scythe countered. “This whole thing was just a way to make you feel less guilty about doing what we all know was the right thing.”
“He might make it,” Jerrod chimed in, throwing his support behind Keegan now that the task was done. “Stranger things have happened.”
“We couldn’t just kill him,” Keegan said. “If we truly are destined to save the world, we have to start with one person.”
That sounds like something Norr would say, she thought. Maybe she was being too hard on Keegan. Maybe he really was trying to do the right thing.
Or maybe he thinks acting more like Norr will win me over.
Scythe felt a wave of disgust wash over her. Keegan wasn’t trying to keep Norr’s memory alive—he was trying to replace him!
“You’re not Norr,” she spat out. “And you never will be, so stop trying to act like him!”
“Scythe,” Keegan said, reaching out toward her. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Norr was a good man,” she said, cutting him off. “It was in his nature. We’re not like that. There’s Chaos in our blood. We are bringers of death and destruction!”
“Maybe we don’t have to be,” Keegan said. “Maybe we can change. Maybe we really can become the kind of heroes who will stop Daemron.”
“Daemron was a hero once, too,” Scythe reminded him. “And look what he became. In a thousand years, will the Order be looking for someone to save the world from us?”
“Daemron was corrupted by the darkness inside his own heart,” Jerrod said. “His pride and arrogance led him to betray the True Gods!”
“Or maybe his true nature finally showed through,” Scythe argued. “You can’t change who you are, Keegan. You’re not Norr. You’re not a hero and you never will be. Just accept it.”
“You’re upset,” the young man said. “You don’t mean that.”
“Do I look upset?” she asked, her voice calm. “I’m not saying this out of anger or spite. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She waited for Keegan to reply, but he didn’t have anything left to say. He stared at her for a few seconds, then turned away, shaking his head.
Scythe looked over at Jerrod, who was staring at her intently. Even without the white veil obscuring his eyes, however, she still couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
When he finally spoke, all he said was, “We should eat, then move out. Callastan is still a long way off.”
“Exactly,” Scythe agreed. “We’ve already wasted more than enough time this morning.�
�
YASMIN ARRIVED AT the Order’s aerie in the early afternoon. It had taken her three days to make the journey from the siege camp outside Callastan, resting only a few hours each evening in deep meditation to maintain her strength.
Ermorr, the elderly Keeper of the aerie, was waiting at the gates to meet her.
“Welcome, Pontiff,” he said, tilting his head slightly in a sign of respect. “I am honored that you have chosen to grace our humble outpost with your presence.”
Yasmin waved aside his comments with an impatient hand—this was not the time for formalities.
“I trust my message was received,” she replied.
“Of course, Pontiff. Nearly a dozen of your loyal followers have gathered here as per your instructions.”
Yasmin scowled. She’d been hoping for more, but the Order’s numbers were not what they once were. And many of her supporters were already either at Callastan, or too far away from Norem to answer her call in time.
We must work with the tools we are given, she reminded herself.
“Send word to Lord Carthin,” she said aloud. “Tell him to prepare for our arrival tonight.”
“Tonight?” Ermorr said, mildly surprised. “You do not wish to rest from your journey?”
“My business with the Justice cannot wait,” she explained. “I will leave within the hour.”
—
The sun was just beginning to set as Yasmin entered the Norem city gates, flanked by her eleven followers. She could have added Ermorr to their numbers, but she thought it best to leave him back at the aerie in case any urgent messages needed to be sent.
A blare of trumpets announced the Pontiff’s arrival, their call echoing across the rooftops. As she and her entourage made their way down the city streets, people flocked from the buildings to see them, crowds forming along their route like a parade. But though the people clapped and cheered, the expressions on their faces wasn’t joy or excitement, and the Pontiff suspected the enthusiastic welcome had been staged by Lord Carthin.
He knows I’m displeased with him. Does he really think he can get on my good side with such an obvious ploy?
Norem was by far the smallest of the Seven Capitals though what it lacked in size and population it made up for in arts and culture. Sculptors, painters, architects, and musicians flocked to the city en masse, eager to make their reputation and secure the patronage of one of the city’s wealthy nobles. Lord Unferth, the current City Lord, was rumored to be particularly generous when it came to rewarding those with artistic talent.
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