Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  What the supplicants outside the Monastery walls lacked in numbers they more than made up for in religious fervor. The faithful pushed and shoved one another without regard, bowing and prostrating themselves, their voices rising up in a discordant cacophony of chants and prayers.

  The nearer Rexol and Cassandra came to the gates the more insufferable the crowd became. Eager worshippers pressed forward, desperate to bring themselves ever closer to the smooth black stone of the Monastery, never quite daring to touch the holy yet forbidding walls.

  Rexol and his charge passed through the throng with relative ease, the people scrambling in their haste to clear a path before him. A Chaos mage in full wizard’s regalia cut a fearsome figure.

  The dark skin of Rexol’s face and bare torso were painted in fierce glyphs, both symbolic and functional in the unleashing of Chaos. His long black hair was knotted in dozens of wild, uneven braids interwoven with the feathers of a young roc.

  His body was adorned with all manner of magical talismans: Smooth white hoops fashioned from the bones of long-extinct beasts pierced his lips, nostrils, ears, tongue, and even the nipples of his chest. Frozen giant’s tears glimmered in the rings on his fingers, and he wore a necklace strung from ogres’ teeth. His left arm jangled with a dozen bracelets wrought from a young dragon’s scales; they completely covered his tattooed skin from his wrist to his elbow. In his right hand he clutched a six-foot ebony staff topped by a gorgon’s horned skull.

  Rexol had drunk deep of the witchroot this morning in anticipation of this meeting. His body quivered with barely contained energy; it shimmered with the aura of a terrible latent power. The worshippers at the gate recoiled from his presence, withering before the harsh glare of Chaos bubbling just beneath the surface of his wild yellow eyes. The wizard had come ready for battle.

  He reached the gate, the young girl who had been his pupil for the past four years still in tow. He rapped his staff hard upon the flawless stone surface, the gorgon’s skull bringing up tiny sparks with each blow.

  “I have been summoned by the Pontiff,” he growled at the featureless stone before him.

  A somber, low-pitched bell rang out from within, and the supplicants obediently backed away. The massive gates opened inward slightly, leaving barely enough space for one man to step through, even though Rexol knew it was possible for the gates to spread wide enough for an entire caravan of wagons traveling side by side to pass within.

  Aware of the slight he had been given, he stepped through angrily, yanking Cassandra after him. The gates closed silently behind them. Despite the euphoria brought on by the witchroot flowing through his body, he felt a twinge of fear as he took stock of his surroundings.

  Immediately inside the Monastery gate was a large courtyard; beyond it were the buildings that served as the living quarters and bureaucratic offices of the Order. Catwalks had been built four feet below the top of the stone walls along the inner entire perimeter, forming battlements so the monks could patrol them during the unthinkable event of an enemy siege.

  The courtyard contained a few monks wandering through as they performed their various religious and secular duties, seemingly oblivious to his presence. They were clad in simple garb, functional and unremarkable. Muted colors were their only distinguishing feature; beyond the walls Rexol would not even have recognized them as members of the Order. Not until he was close enough to see their gray and lifeless eyes.

  From the buildings on the other side of the courtyard a figure was approaching, dressed as the others save for a rather unremarkable chain of office around his neck. Flanking him on either side, following a single step behind, were six more monks: Inquisitors; guards to protect the leader of the Order as he met with one of their sworn enemy.

  Rexol had never met the Pontiff before; he was momentarily taken aback by the physical frailty of his rival. Nazir seemed an old, old man. He walked with slow, measured steps, stooped forward and leaning heavily on a simple walking stick. His face was lined and weathered; his wrinkled scalp was speckled with dark brown age spots that could not be hidden by his few wispy strands of white hair. Like all the monks his eyes were sightless orbs of solid gray. Yet despite the obvious diminishments of age he carried himself with an air of authority.

  “I am here,” the mage declared once the Pontiff had crossed the distance between them. “I have answered your summons.”

  No more words were needed; Rexol’s appearance spoke for itself. He had come girded for battle, weighed down with so many talismans and ornaments of power that he was barely able to contain the Chaos within himself. If this was to be his last stand, he wanted his foe to realize that victory would come with a terrible cost.

  The old man did not reply immediately, and Rexol knew his none-too-subtle point had been made.

  Nazir studied the spectacle before him, evaluating his enemy. Though not a sorcerer, he understood the violent purpose of the fearsome glyphs etched on the bare-chested man’s dark skin. He felt the awesome potential of the Chaos bound within the rings and necklaces adorning the wizard; the Sight allowed him to see the shimmering nimbus of crackling power enveloping his foe.

  Typical of his kind, the mage had pushed himself to his very limits with no regard for the possible consequences. His yellow eyes gave undeniable proof that his mind was addled by the narcotic effects of witchroot, further impairing his judgment.

  The Pontiff realized he would have to be aware of the potential consequences for both their sakes. A single lapse in the wizard’s mental control could unleash the devastating fury of the Chaos trapped within the talismans, resulting in a storm that would consume them all.

  “I see you have brought the child,” the Pontiff said, turning toward the young girl.

  She recoiled slightly, half hiding behind Rexol’s leg. A common enough reaction in the children brought here. In time she would get over her fear of his gray, sightless eyes.

  “Cassandra is in my charge. I have taken her as my apprentice.” The wizard made no effort to veil the implied threat in his tone.

  “She belongs in the Order,” the Pontiff replied, his voice even but firm. “Her parents should have brought her to us when she first manifested her power.”

  “They didn’t. They brought her to me. She is my responsibility, not yours.”

  “Her parents did not bring her to you. She was stolen away even as our emissaries came to escort her to the Monastery.”

  He paused as if expecting the wizard to protest his innocence, but Rexol said nothing.

  The Pontiff continued in the same passionless voice with which he had leveled the initial accusations. “By hiding her from us you have violated the doctrines of the Order. I could try you for heresy.”

  “The cost would be high,” came the wizard’s brazen reply, confirming the Pontiff’s fears: The heady rush of witchroot had made him bold and reckless. “The Seven Capitals will only follow you down the path of moderation. Return to the fanatical ways of the Purge and they will abandon you!”

  “We are not concerned with the politics of the Seven Capitals,” the Pontiff declared. “The Order serves a higher purpose, and we are all united in our cause.”

  “United?” Rexol sneered. “We both know the Heresy of the Burning Savior did not die with Ezra! How many of your own people have turned against you? How many heretics do you have here in your walls right now?”

  These were questions Nazir could not answer; questions that haunted his days and brought the demons of self-doubt during the night. He had suspected Rexol was in league with the heretics. He was all but certain one of them had delivered the girl into the mage’s possession. And now the Pontiff was determined to take her away no matter what the cost.

  “The loyalty of my Inquisitors is not in question,” the old man replied with confidence, tilting his head to indicate the six monks flanking him. “Do not believe you have allies within these walls,” he added. “The heretics will not expose themselves simply to come to your aid.”
r />   A sly smile twisted the mage’s lips, as if he knew something the Pontiff didn’t.

  “Are you so sure?” the wizard mocked. “Cassandra has the Gift of prophecy. Her dreams have revealed a vision of what will happen if you dare to attack me.”

  “Our Oracles also dream,” came the Pontiff’s calm reply. “I have seen what will happen if blood is spilled within the Monastery walls. I know it will herald my own impending death.

  “But if I fall, a successor will rise to replace me,” Nazir continued, his voice unwavering in his conviction. “And you would still burn at the stake for your crimes. That is a price I am willing to pay if necessary.”

  A flicker of doubt flashed across the wizard’s face, giving further strength to Nazir’s resolve.

  “The followers of Ezra do not have the will to stand against us. They are cowards; they live in hiding, surrounded by fear. We are the hunters and they are the meekest of prey!” His voice rose up in a righteous shout. “One by one we will find them—and those who serve them—and crush them in the name of the True Gods!”

  “Your Gods are dead!” the wizard spat out.

  Nazir showed no reaction to his words; he gave no sign that might betray his emotions or intent. The Inquisitors behind him, however, stiffened at the blasphemy spewing from the wizard’s mouth.

  Sensing their anger, the mage thrust his staff toward the sky. The aura surrounding him sparked and flared, the air crackling with the brute force of barely contained power.

  Chaos surged through Rexol’s body, a wave of heat coursing through his veins. It rose up like smoke from the charms dangling off his necklaces and jewelry, coalescing and enveloping his tattooed form. He breathed the sweet mist in through his nostrils until it filled him to near bursting. His ears buzzed with the growing power, his bare skin tingled, and he could feel his hair standing on end as the energy flowed through him.

  With a single word or gesture he could unleash the magic of his talismans on the Pontiff; blast him from existence; sweep away those who dared oppose him in an ecstasy of unbridled violence. Yet at the last instant, he stayed his hand.

  A small crowd of monks had gathered in the courtyard, joining the Pontiff and his Inquisitors. Several more had moved silently behind Rexol, surrounding him and Cassandra. They stood motionless, arms at their sides. Their unseeing eyes were focused intently on the mage and his apprentice.

  With great difficulty Rexol managed to hold the gathering Chaos in check as he quickly weighed the odds. Physically, he doubted he was a match for any of them. Even the frail old Pontiff was likely a master of the martial arts. If his magic couldn’t destroy them—all of them—Rexol knew he wouldn’t survive.

  The Order collected those who were strong in the Sight and nourished their talent, but it also trained them to resist other manifestations of Chaos. Individually they were no match for Rexol’s magic, but collectively they might withstand his sorcery through sheer force of will.

  And there was one final consideration: the imposing black walls of the Monastery that surrounded them. It was said that the dark stone devoured and imprisoned Chaos, giving strength to the monks’ ability to resist the arcane within the fortress.

  Despite his formidable battle raiment, Rexol doubted he would ever make it out past those black stone walls again should he attack. And while the Pontiff was willing to sacrifice his life for a greater cause, the wizard was not.

  He lowered his staff and released the Chaos in a long, slow sigh of gentle wind. The breeze ruffled the thin wisps of hair on the Pontiff’s head, but otherwise there was no indication of how close Rexol had come to loosing a spell of massive destruction within the Monastery walls.

  “You will not leave the walls of the Monastery with Cassandra,” Nazir declared, his voice hard and cold as tempered steel.

  The battle was lost; Rexol was smart enough to see that. His strategy now turned to one of retreat … and survival.

  “If I give you Cassandra, then I am free to go?”

  The Pontiff shook his head. “Renouncing your claim on the girl is not enough. You will not leave as long as you are an agent of those who follow the teachings of Ezra. You are in league with those who preach heresy. You must stand trial for your crimes … or atone.”

  It was clear what the Pontiff was demanding. He wanted Rexol to reveal his allies within the Order; he wanted a name.

  The wizard hesitated, but only for an instant. He had sided with Ezra’s followers only because it had cost him nothing. In exchange they had given him Cassandra, but she was about to be taken away—there was nothing left to bind him to them now. He no more believed in their quest to find the Burning Savior than he believed in the Order’s crusade to stamp out all manifestations of Chaos to try to preserve the Legacy of the Old Gods. And Rexol had no intention of becoming a martyr for a cause he did not believe in.

  “Jerrod,” he said flatly. There was no point in lying; the Pontiff would know. “He’s the one you want. Jerrod.”

  The Pontiff gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “You are free to go,” he said. “But be warned—the Southlands are the domain of the Order. Seek another apprentice from among those who swear fealty to the Seven Capitals again, and you will burn.”

  One of the Inquisitors stepped up and took Cassandra’s free hand. Rexol released his grip on her other one, taking a last look down into her emerald eyes as they filled with tears of fear and confusion. There were no words he could say to her, nothing more he could do. So he simply turned and walked out the way he had come.

  The massive gates of the Monastery opened once more, just wide enough to accommodate a single person. Rexol stepped through the portal and trudged slowly down the stairs, the crowd parting for him as it had on his arrival. At the bottom he crossed the empty plain until he reached the two horses that had served as their mounts for the five-day ride from his manse across the Southern Desert to the Monastery’s gates. He tied the lead of Cassandra’s horse to his own mount’s bridle, then swung himself up into the saddle and set off for home. He never once looked back.

  He briefly thought about the man he had exposed, wondering how long it would be before the Inquisitors hauled him in to be tried. Jerrod was smart and careful; he had no doubt planned for this day. Most likely he had agents inside the Monastery who would warn him they were coming. Rexol was confident his former ally would have ample time to flee to the safety of the Free Cities, though he wasn’t certain Jerrod would chose to do so.

  Eventually his thoughts turned back to Cassandra. She still bore the mark of his final spell, a powerful incantation binding her to him with the symbol he had branded into her flesh, invisible to all eyes but his own. But the magic meant nothing now that she had been seized by the Inquisitors. She was lost to him forever, just one more child claimed by the Order.

  He needed to find another worthy of learning at his feet. He couldn’t expect help from Jerrod or his followers—not after he had exposed them. And the Pontiff had forbidden him to take another apprentice from among the children of the Southlands. But there were other places he could seek out those with power: the Free Cities; the Frozen East; even in the forests of the Danaan.

  He suspected there might even be a precious few who could match the potential of the girl he had just sacrificed to save himself. Jerrod had found Cassandra for him; her power had dwarfed any he had seen before. Based on this, Rexol was willing to admit the so-called Burning Savior that Jerrod had seen in his dreams might even be real.

  There were other children out there who were touched by Chaos, just as Cassandra had been. They might live seemingly normal lives for a time, but power flowed through their veins. Born under a shadow of death, their lives would be marked by turmoil and danger. Their untapped potential would twist the world around them, shaping events, driving them toward their destinies until their true natures were exposed.

  Those of the Order would continue their relentless hunt to identify these children and spirit them away to the Monastery. B
ut Rexol knew their attempts to snuff out the sparks of Chaos would ultimately prove futile. If he was patient he would eventually find one of these extraordinary pupils before his enemies could lay claim. They would be drawn to him by the burning power coursing through their veins; like calling to like. It was inevitable.

  However, contemplating the victory of a distant future couldn’t help him push away the defeat of his immediate past. As he rode off into the dunes, he couldn’t shake the image of Cassandra staring after him as he abandoned her, her brilliant green eyes wide with fear and betrayal.

  Chapter 10

  “Leave me alone!”

  Scythe recognized the blubbering voice crying out from down the alley. Eiger was ten—two years older than Scythe herself—but he still sounded like a baby when he was scared.

  She couldn’t hear what insult was said in reply to Eiger’s plea but she recognized Petir’s mocking laughter. And wherever Petir went Bander and Corbin were sure to follow. Methodis didn’t like it when she got into fights; he always said it was better to walk away. But three against one wasn’t fair, even if the one was a full year older than any of his tormenters.

  Methodis had told her to hurry back. He needed several of the items on the crumpled ingredient list clutched in Scythe’s grimy fist for a patient who was coming back this afternoon. And she didn’t even like Eiger. Not really. He was too fat to climb or play tag or duck-and-cover. He was too clumsy to play toss-rocks. And he cried if he fell down or stubbed his toe or scraped his knees.

  But it was three against one. And Scythe hated Petir.

  “Please, don’t make me!” came Eiger’s pitiful cry from the alley just ahead.

  “You better eat up, Butter-boy!” Petir snapped back. “Your Islander girlfriend isn’t here to save you this time!”

  Scythe flew down the alley like the harsh wind of vengeance, the list of ingredients fluttering forgotten to the dirty street in her furious wake.