Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “Perhaps that is because his worth has more value as a leader of the guard than as a king.”

  Now the Queen had no choice but to intervene.

  “Andar, your words come dangerously close to treason,” she warned in a cold, hard voice. “Vaaler is the rightful heir, descended in an unbroken line from Tremin Avareen himself. He will one day rule this kingdom, and you will one day bow to him … or lose your head.”

  “Forgive me, my Queen,” Andar said, genuflecting as he spoke. “I was caught up in the heat of the argument. I have sworn my loyalty to you and your royal House, and I would sooner lose my life than break my oath.”

  Loyalty to me and my royal House, the Queen thought, but not to my son.

  Out loud she said, “Your apology is accepted, Andar. But you had best not speak such things beyond the walls of the council.”

  She had no choice but to forgive him absolutely. He was only speaking what everyone else was thinking. And if she punished him for speaking out here, the others would begin to guard their tongues. They would cease to be valued advisers and become fawning sycophants. She needed their true and honest counsel. Now, more than ever.

  “The Cataclysm is coming. The Queen has seen it,” Drake proclaimed. “That is what we must focus on here in council: the Cataclysm and the possible destruction of our people. We must set aside talk of the prince and return to the issue at hand.”

  His words were greeted with verbal assent from all present, but in their faces the Queen could clearly see they all believed Vaaler’s flaw was very much part of the issue at hand.

  The debate continued long into the night, but it was as fruitless as all their previous discussions. Her vision was powerful, but completely useless. It showed her a terrible fate, but not how to avoid it. It was said the ancient Monarchs had possessed the power to bend the Sight to their will, to force the Chaos in the royal blood to show them what they commanded be revealed. If so, that power had long since been lost.

  The Queen had no control over her dreams. She was but a conduit for the Chaos to manifest itself; as her husband had been, and the Monarch before him, and the Monarch before her. Perhaps this was evidence that the Sight had been steadily growing weaker within the Avareen line. Perhaps Vaaler’s condition was not as unforeseeable as they all wished to believe.

  It hardly mattered anymore. The council would argue, the Queen would listen, and nothing would be decided. At night she would sleep and dream of fire. And soon the Destroyer of Worlds would come.

  Unconsciously her hand strayed up to the ring dangling from her neck, her delicate fingers wrapping tightly around it as if they could draw reassurance from the plain gold band.

  Chapter 40

  For the first four days after their hurried escape from Praeton, Jerrod increased their already exhausting pace. Keegan wasn’t about to complain about the redoubled rate. It wasn’t retribution from the simple villagers they feared, but rather word of their actions reaching the ears of any Pilgrims who might happen to be in the area.

  News of their exploits would spread quickly. Using the messenger birds of the noble Houses they served, the Pilgrims could communicate with one another much faster than horses could ride. Their recent location would soon be known, and from there it wasn’t hard to guess they were heading north to the Free Cities. They had to reach Torian before the Order could assemble an army to block their way.

  Keegan was even more eager to avoid a confrontation with the Order than before. In their flight, he’d left his charms and the vial of witchroot behind—he was basically defenseless now. Vulnerable. If something happened, he’d be totally reliant on his companion to save him.

  He hated admitting his own weakness, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that it was only temporary. Once they reached Torian he’d stock up again on supplies. And in the future, he’d be careful to always carry some witchroot and an assortment of charms with him.

  On the fifth day of their flight they crossed the Larna River on the northern edge of the province, and Jerrod finally allowed their pace to slow. Technically they were in the borderlands now, and beyond the Pontiff’s official reach. It would take at least another week until they reached the city of Torian itself, but the Order had few agents in this territory and little sway with local rulers, so any pursuit would likely come from behind.

  They had successfully escaped the Southlands. Now the only question was whether Khamin Ankha, Rexol’s former student, would help them.

  The name seemed somehow familiar to Keegan, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Rexol had mentioned him? Maybe the fact that he recognized the name was a good sign. His master rarely referred to his former students by name; maybe this Khamin Ankha had been someone special enough to warrant such a mention.

  And if they didn’t find what they needed in Torian there was always one more option: Vaaler. They were drawing ever closer to the North Forest, forbidden domain of the Danaan. And Keegan just happened to know the heir to the throne. Surely Vaaler would help him … providing they weren’t killed making their way through the forest to reach him.

  He hadn’t mentioned the Danaan prince to Jerrod yet. He was afraid to. If the monk knew of such a potentially valuable ally he might insist they try to reach him no matter what the cost. During their time together under Rexol, Vaaler had told him many vivid tales of the Danaan patrols and what they did to any humans foolish enough to wander into their lands. Given the graphic nature of these tales, Keegan would rather not risk such a journey unless it was their last hope.

  He decided to keep his secret a little longer. At least until they had tested out the hospitality of those in Torian.

  Scythe was up first, as usual. When Norr slept, he slept hard—throwing himself into his slumber with reckless abandon. Instead of waking him, however, she left him snoring away while she scouted ahead to pick up the trail once more.

  The false merchants they followed weren’t making any effort to hide their progress, but Scythe was city born and bred. It took her a long time to find even the most obvious sign of their quarry’s passing. Sometimes she never could find the trail, and she would have to go back and wake Norr. The barbarian was a hunter; he could track the men easily. But she hated to wake him. And she hated to admit defeat.

  Not that the trail mattered much, anyway. They were heading almost due north, deviating only to avoid the cities and well-traveled roads. Often they went directly through the sparse birch forests that grew in the wilds of the upper Southlands, cutting through streams and fields with no regard to any existing path. At first Scythe thought her prey were trying to throw off pursuit, but later she came to realize it was simply a matter of taking the shortest, most direct route possible. The wizards were trying to move quickly, and they were succeeding.

  After the first few days Scythe had nearly given up. The trail was getting colder as they fell farther and farther behind, despite only sleeping a few hours each night. It was as if the men they followed needed no sleep at all. She had even considered the possibility that they were using strange magic to replenish themselves and their mounts. After what she had seen in the Singing Dragon’s tavern, it didn’t seem out of the question.

  She still had the pouch she had stolen from the wizard’s room tucked safely away inside her belt, though she herself had no use for the magical trinkets or the strange vial of liquid. If she remembered Methodis’s lessons, the vial was probably witchroot—a powerful drug wizards used to unfetter their minds. And the trinkets were probably charms; bits of teeth or bone from long-extinct creatures thought to embody the power of Chaos itself.

  Scythe hoped these were the mages’ only source of power; without them they might be defenseless and vulnerable. But she knew it was likely they had more of their arcane supplies stashed away somewhere on the pack horses.

  Despite this, she refused to turn back. It was as much a fear of returning to life in Praeton as her unquenchable burning lust for revenge that drove Scythe onward.

 
Once they passed the Larna River they had finally begun to gain ground. Norr had noticed it first, of course. But now even Scythe could see the signs that they were getting closer. They began to run across abandoned camps, something they hadn’t seen before. Norr showed her where the men had slept, the weight of their bodies bending and breaking the soft undergrowth they had lain on. He was even able to tell her how long they spent at each campsite, and after their initial sleepless run Scythe was relieved to learn that even wizards needed a full night’s rest at some point.

  Norr had even been able to tell her what order the men had taken their watch in, deducing who had waken whom for the next shift by the faintest of footprints in the soft ground. This merely confirmed what she had suspected, but a posted watch didn’t worry her. She could slip past any guard unseen in the darkness of the night—or slit his throat before he could make a sound. At least they weren’t using some fell Chaos magic to ward their camps. Scythe didn’t know if she’d be able to circumvent anything like that.

  For her and Norr posting a guard wasn’t an issue. For one thing, they had no one to fear. They weren’t being hunted, and the chance of a random encounter this far from the main roads was minuscule. Too, Scythe was a very light sleeper. Anyone trying to creep up on them unawares was likely to find themselves staring down Scythe’s blade as soon as they got close enough to try anything.

  So she and Norr both slept comfortably the entire night. Unless they woke up to make love. Ever since she had realized they were gaining on their targets Scythe had felt an exhilarating flush, the heat of anticipation. Norr felt it, too, the long-forgotten thrill of the hunt. Energized by the adrenaline pumping through their bodies and the untamed surroundings, their sex was primal and wild. Even feral. She clawed at Norr’s chest and back, her raking nails leaving bright red trails across his pale skin. He thrust into her madly, like an animal in heat until her screams of pain and pleasure tore the night’s canopy. They would lie motionless in the aftermath, limbs entwined, the cool night air bringing goose bumps to their naked flesh as their sweat evaporated. And maybe, just maybe, Scythe hoped Norr didn’t regret leaving Praeton behind.

  A broken branch caught her eye. She had found the trail once more. Satisfied, she tore a larger branch from a nearby shrub and jammed it into the ground by the sign of her quarry’s passing so she could easily find it again after she woke Norr.

  Scythe didn’t know what would happen when she and Norr caught up to the two wizards, but not knowing didn’t worry her. In fact, she reveled in it. Unlike the monotonous predictability of Praeton, their future was once more unwritten and unknowable.

  Unaware she was smiling, she returned to camp with a spring in her step, eager to wake Norr so the hunt could resume.

  Chapter 41

  Torian, like all the Free Cities, was surrounded by an enormous wall fifty feet high and twenty feet thick. The cracked, gray stone attested to the age of this formidable defense. The fact that it was still standing after so many centuries and countless attacks upon the city gave testament to its strength.

  From his studies under Rexol, Keegan knew the Free Cities—sometimes called the Border Cities—had earned their name through the blood and suffering of their peoples. In the wake of the Cataclysm seven hundred years ago, the entire Southlands had been a collection of a hundred independent city-states evolved from primitive nomadic tribes that had chosen to settle and build rather than continue their ceaseless wandering. The settlements had been ruled by descendants of the tribal chieftains, and the towns were constantly involved in skirmishes and clashes with their neighbors.

  Petty warfare was the norm; small raiding armies marched the Southlands, burning and ravaging everything in their path. The battles were crude, the weapons simple but effectively lethal nonetheless. Valuable fertile farmland was fought over and changed hands on an almost yearly basis, until the endless struggle left only a blighted, blasted stretch of sterile soil. Entire generations of young men were lost to the slaughter. Population growth and cultural evolution ground to a halt as the Southlands wallowed in the mire and misery of constant, ceaseless warfare.

  And then, after nearly three centuries of stagnation, came the Unification. Seven of the strongest and most powerful warlords joined their armies and began a war of conquest and subjugation throughout the Southlands. The tiny would-be kingdoms were swallowed up into the ever-expanding empire, their ancient rivalries and conflicts forgotten as their leaders were ousted and executed by the Alliance of the Seven.

  The banners of the Alliance were first seen in the middle lands, but within two decades its rapidly spreading borders had pushed south until they reached the desert, east until they reached the Frozen Wastes, and west until they reached the Great Sea. The foundations for the Southlands as it existed today were laid as the warlords divided their spoils into the provinces known as the Seven Kingdoms, each claiming the grandest city in his region as his territorial capital.

  The great Southland Empire had been constrained on three points of the compass—south, east, and west—by geography and nature. So the warlords turned their land-hungry armies to the north, where they expected their massive forces to conquer everything until they reached the forests of the Danaan. Instead, for the first time, they found pockets of true resistance and an enemy they couldn’t sweep away with the sheer numbers of troops at their command: the Free Cities.

  Legends of the wars against the Free Cities were well known among the Southlands, and were even more famous in places like Torian. Tales of sieges lasting twenty years, with a few hundred soldiers holding the great walled fortress towns against ten thousand armed foes camped around the gates. Myths of brave City Lords who refused surrender, fiercely clinging to their independence against overwhelming, impossible odds yet somehow succeeding in the end. Epic sagas of the Southland generals crashing their forces against the walls with the relentless fury of pounding waves battering the shore cliffs, only to have their charge and spirits broken time and time again by the stalwart courage of the defenders on the other side.

  Of course not all the stories from the Free Cities’ Wars were heroic. Dark rumors of cannibalism evolved out of whispers that those trapped within the walled towns could not have survived without devouring their own kind, but Rexol had taught Keegan that this was mostly Southland propaganda. The sieges were not proper sieges. Each of the Free Cities had been built against the very edge of the North Forest, their walls actually extending back into the tree line. When the Southland armies came, they found it impossible to totally surround the walled towns. The north gates within the woods were not blockaded, giving the citizens an escape and a back door to bring in supplies and food.

  Not that the Southland generals hadn’t tried to cut off this access route. But each time soldiers had been forced into the forbidden woods to try to encircle their enemy, they never returned. It was never proven or admitted, but most historians suspected the Danaan were responsible for the vanishing troops. Either overtly or covertly, they had supported the efforts of the Free Cities, anxious to maintain a buffer between their own lands and those of the expansionist human empire to the south.

  In the end the Southlands had admitted defeat, and turned from warfare to diplomacy to try to bring the unbreakable walled towns into their fold. The result was a collection of semi-autonomous cities, strongly allied with the Seven Capitals yet able to resist many of the compromises and political capitulations the rest of the Southlands had to bow to, including the decrees of the Order.

  During the Purge, the Free Cities had resisted the Order as they had resisted the Southern warlords before, with similar success. Here the Pontiff had little influence and even less power. Here Keegan and Jerrod might find sanctuary against the death sentence imposed on them by the Monastery, appealing to Beethania the City Lord through her court mage Khamin Ankha, Rexol’s former apprentice.

  They were nearing the southern gate now, Keegan and Jerrod and a hundred other travelers along the massive road. Th
e pair had joined the crowd about a mile back, diverting from their previous plan of staying on the lesser-used paths. There was only one way into Torian from this side, and that was through the massive, heavily guarded gates.

  Despite the crush of people around them, Keegan knew they would stand out. Jerrod had decided they would make no effort to hide who or what they were. In fact, he had insisted that Keegan adorn himself in full battle regalia: bare-chested, his body covered in painted glyphs and wards, and Rexol’s gorgon’s-skull staff held in his hand.

  The monk wanted to make an impression. He wanted to draw the attention of the city authorities. He wanted everyone to know a fierce Chaos mage was in the city; he wanted Rexol’s former apprentice to come to them.

  Keegan could feel the eyes of everyone on him as they passed through the enormous walls and into the borders of the city. He disdained to return their gaze—as a Chaos mage, the commoners were beneath him. Yet from the corner of his eye he saw a runner scurrying away, obviously going to alert the city officials of their presence. Jerrod had what he wanted: They had been noticed.

  Torian, once a bastion of military might that had withstood the Alliance of the Seven Warlords, was now a thriving trade center; a bridge between the Southlands and the mysterious Danaan kingdom hidden in the trees beyond the north gate. The Danaan influence was obvious throughout the city. Many of the green-hued Forest Folk walked among the crowd, and in the features and coloration of the general populace Keegan could detect the subtle traces of a not quite purely human ancestry. Anywhere else a child of a Danaan and a human would be reviled as an abomination, a half-breed. But judging by the evidence in Torian, here such offspring were accepted with at least a grudging tolerance.

  The clothing and fashions were also markedly different from those in the Southlands. Of course styles varied city to city and region to region, but even among the most disparate trends there was always something familiar, something distinctly Southern about the preferred dress within the provinces: functionally, durable garb, and subdued colors.