The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)

by Drew Karpyshyn

  By focusing his mind, Jerrod was able to regulate his body temperature and protect against the chill. Instead of blood flow to his extremities being cut off, it continued to circulate through his fingers and toes, keeping them from going stiff and numb. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the cold, and he knew how much discomfort it brought the others.

  They’d debated whether to continue, but Norr had insisted they needed to press on for the sake of the clans—every day they waited represented more casualties for those who tried to stand against the Danaan army. And so, despite the weather, they had continued.

  By midmorning, the path they were following became too steep and slick to continue with the sled. The provisions they’d packed were quickly divided up, with each member of the expedition taking as much as they could carry, stuffed into packs they threw over their shoulders. Remarkably, Hadawas vowed to continue as their guide even though it meant he must travel on foot.

  The old man moved slowly, but when the trail they were following came up against a sheer rock face he proved his value.

  “There’s a crevice along the right side that cuts through the rock,” Hadawas told them.

  In the snow it took several minutes to find the passage, but in the end he was proved right. The endless cycle of ice melting and refreezing had carved a fissure in the otherwise impassable face. Without Hadawas, they would have had to either attempt to scale the fifty-foot rock wall blocking their way or turn back and seek out another route.

  Even so, it was a tight fit for Norr. His back and belly scraped along the rock wall even after he’d shed all but the last layer of his clothes.

  “How far does this passage go?” he asked, his teeth chattering.

  “It opens up on the other side of the wall,” Hadawas promised him. “A few hundred feet ahead.”

  They edged through the narrow crack single file, dragging their supply packs along the ground behind them on short straps of leather tied to their belts. Jerrod took the lead and Keegan followed right behind him, leaning on Rexol’s staff for support. Norr brought up the rear. A few feet in the ground began to slope upward, the fissure continuing to climb at a sharp angle. At the halfway point it became noticeably darker, and looking up, the monk saw that the channel narrowed dramatically above them, cutting off the light.

  In that moment he suddenly realized they were surrounded on all sides by thousands upon thousands of tons of rock and ice. He could feel it beneath his feet, and he could sense it pressing in on him from in front and behind.

  If the snow and ice on the peak above us gives way, it will pour into the fissure and we’ll be buried alive!

  He tried to push the thought from his mind, but it was impossible to ignore given their surroundings. Yet there was nothing he could do at this point but continue onward. When he finally reached the other side and stepped out from the narrow passage, he felt a major sense of relief … until he looked down.

  The tunnel ended on a narrow ledge, no more than five feet wide. Beyond it was a drop of at least fifty feet to the jagged rocks below. The snow had stopped falling by the time he emerged, but the wind had picked up. The rock beneath his feet was covered with a layer of ice, making the footing treacherous.

  The ledge continued in only one direction: upward. Repositioning his pack, Jerrod pressed his back against the edge of the mountain and inched his way along it to give everyone else room. One by one the others crawled out of the crevice. From their expressions and gasps, the monk could tell they had a similar reaction to his own—claustrophobia followed by a short-lived relief that was replaced by mild vertigo.

  “How far does this ledge continue?” Norr asked once they were all outside. As he spoke, Scythe helped wrap him back up in the clothes he had shed to fit through the fissure.

  “A quarter mile up the side of the mountain,” Hadawas answered. “It will bring us to a plateau at the top of this peak.”

  Jerrod noted that the old man was breathing heavily though he was the only one not burdened by a supply pack. The air here was already thin, making physical exertion even more difficult.

  “Maybe we should use ropes to tie us together,” Scythe suggested, peering over the edge of the trail.

  “There’s nothing to secure them with,” Jerrod countered. “If one of us falls, the others would all be dragged over, too.”

  “Tread carefully,” Hadawas advised them, “and you have nothing to fear.”

  Jerrod’s senses were focused on his balance and footing, reducing his awareness to a small circle that included only himself and Keegan. He didn’t know if he would be able to help the savior if he fell, but he knew he’d give his life trying.

  “What was that?” Scythe suddenly called out.

  “What?” Norr asked her.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “How can you hear anything over this wind?” one of Hadawas’s soldiers asked.

  A good question, yet all of them stood still and listened for several seconds before Scythe declared, “I guess it was nothing.”

  Jerrod, however, wasn’t so sure. As they inched their way farther along the ledge, he slowly expanded his awareness, reaching out with his Sight. And then he sensed the yeti.

  The creature clung to the stone of the mountainside twenty feet above them, using the claws on its hands and feet for purchase. It was about two-thirds the size of an average man; even smaller and slighter than Scythe. Its face was simian, its eyes set in a deep, protruding brow. It was completely covered in white fur, allowing it to blend in perfectly with the snow-covered surface of its perch.

  The creature didn’t move, and Jerrod realized it had been there for some time, watching their progress. The monk turned his head up toward it, and it scuttled higher up the mountain and vanished, the sound of its claws scraping on the icy rocks covered by the wind.

  Not wanting to alarm the others unnecessarily while they navigated the precarious trail, Jerrod kept silent. But now that he knew what to look for, he decided to split his focus between the path ahead and the rocks above.

  A few minutes after the first yeti vanished, several more appeared. Like the first they clung to the rocks above, watching. This time Jerrod didn’t look up to scare them away, and slowly their numbers began to grow. Soon there were a dozen of the white-haired humanoids prowling the path above them. They were silent as ghosts, sliding easily along the mountain’s face as they tracked the progress of the humans below.

  They’re stalking us, Jerrod realized.

  Hadawas had said they were drawn to the power of Daemron’s Sword; if that was true, it was logical to assume they could sense the Talisman Keegan wore around his neck as well. But something was holding them back. Despite their growing numbers, they never came too close, and they seemed more wary than violent.

  Are they afraid of us? Or is it the Ring itself they fear?

  It took almost two hours for them to reach the plateau though it wasn’t Hadawas who slowed them down. The venerable chief was the most sure-footed of them all, and though he never hurried, he had no trouble keeping up with the others as they took tentative, cautious steps on the slippery surface.

  The yeti had stalked them through most of the journey, but once Jerrod was close enough to the end to actually see the plateau above them they vanished en masse. Only once everyone was safely on the plateau did he tell them what he’d seen.

  “The yeti were following us. Watching us.”

  “I knew I heard something!” Scythe exclaimed.

  “How many were there?” Norr wanted to know.

  “I counted twenty,” Jerrod said. “But there could have been more higher up where I couldn’t sense them.”

  “And all they did was watch us?” Keegan asked.

  “The yeti are no threat to us,” Hadawas assured them. “They will not keep us from claiming the Sword.”

  “How much farther is it, anyway?” Scythe asked.

  “The Guardian’s cave is beyond the valley that lies over t
he next peak,” Hadawas told them. “Another two or three days. Maybe more—the way becomes harder from this point.”

  “Good to know the easy stuff is behind us,” Scythe grumbled.

  “We should rest here for a few hours,” Hadawas told them. “There is a cave nearby where we can take shelter from the wind.”

  Once again, their guide was right. On locating the cave, the entire group squeezed inside. The ceiling was low enough that even Jerrod had to duck, and Norr was bent over nearly double. As they pulled blankets from their pack and spread them on the floor, the heat from their bodies quickly warmed the cramped quarters.

  How could he know about this cave unless he’s been over these mountains before? Jerrod wondered. And how did he know the yeti wouldn’t attack us?

  There was something Hadawas wasn’t telling them. They couldn’t have come this far without his help, but Jerrod was starting to wonder if the Sun Blade chief would betray them before it was all over.

  He was planning to go after the Sword before we came. Will he really just surrender it to Keegan, or will he try to take it for himself?

  The Crown had destroyed Rexol when he dared to use it; Jerrod assumed the Sword would do the same—its power too great for most mortals to endure. But what if he was wrong?

  What if Hadawas knows something about the Sword that we don’t?

  Keegan and the others were already bedding down, the mental and physical strain of the day’s climb having left them completely drained. Hadawas’s eyes were already closed, his breath coming in a slow, steady rhythm.

  Jerrod was tired, too, but when he closed his sightless eyes he kept his mind alert and his awareness focused on the entire cave, keeping watch over Keegan and his friends while everyone else slept.

  Chapter 30

  LYING FLAT ON their stomachs almost completely buried beneath the snow, Shalana and the thirty Stone Spirit warriors with her waited anxiously for the Danaan patrol to draw close enough for them to strike.

  The scouting reports confirmed what young Ullis had told them—the hostile army marching across the Frozen East was massive. Traveling in small, loosely organized bands, the Tree Folk forces created a front that extended for several miles. Even united, the clans were badly outnumbered. And at the head of the invasion was some kind of enormous beast—a massive, heavily muscled creature that seemed to be formed of slime and sludge and rotting gray flesh.

  If Vaaler’s plan doesn’t work, we’ll all be slaughtered.

  The exiled prince had shared everything he knew about the strengths and weaknesses of the Danaan army with her and the chiefs from the other clans. He’d even recognized the description of the strange monster that walked with the enemy from his childhood fables: he called it an ogre.

  Yet several of the chiefs were suspicious of his motives, especially when they found out Vaaler wasn’t willing to take up weapons against his own people. Shalana had explained his reluctance to fight by pointing out that in the confusion of battle, he could easily be mistaken for the enemy, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason.

  He still feels a kinship to them. He doesn’t want to put himself in a position where he must spill the blood of those he once called his own.

  Loudest among the voices opposing Vaaler was her own father. Despite his body no longer being fit for battle, Terramon had come to the Conclave with the Stone Spirit warriors in answer to her summons. But in the end, the direness of their situation finally won others over to her side. Despite his reputation as a great conqueror, Terramon could offer no strategy or battle plan that could save them—they simply didn’t have enough warriors to meet the Danaan head-on. And so they had gone with Vaaler’s tactics.

  Our only hope is to harry and harass them, he’d explained. Slow them down long enough for your people to seek shelter near the mountains.

  From Roggen’s daily reports, Shalana knew hundreds of children, elderly, and other noncombatants were already pouring into the Giant’s Maw each day. He hadn’t been pleased when Shalana assigned him the task of overseeing the refugee camp; he was a warrior who wanted to be part of the battle. But the Sun Blade thane was well-known among many of the clans, giving him the authority and respect necessary to be in charge. He was also smart enough to understand the importance of the camp at the Giant’s Maw, and he was organized enough to manage the food and other supplies as the population swelled.

  Thinking of Roggen reminded her of Berlen. They could have used his great strength on the front lines, but he had disappeared. Nobody had seen the Sun Blade’s mightiest warrior since the night Norr met with Hadawas and they left to seek out Daemron’s Sword.

  She was still angry at Norr for leaving when they needed him most. To Shalana’s surprise, however, as news of their mad quest spread among the warriors and refugees, it kindled hope among the people.

  They’re scared and desperate. They need something—anything—to cling to.

  But Shalana and the chiefs knew better. Their survival didn’t depend on a long-lost mythical weapon. It would come from the spears and blades and blood of the men and women who dared to risk their lives against overwhelming odds.

  They’d plotted the course of the Danaan march and laid their trap on the Frozen Sea, a wide plain covered with long lines of rolling, snow-covered hills that were said to resemble the ocean waves. The hills and uneven terrain would cut off lines of sight between the Danaan forces, giving the clans the cover they needed.

  The enemy patrol was close now, less than twenty feet away. Any closer and they’d see through the Stone Spirit camouflage. Shalana sprang to her feet, rising from the snowdrift and unleashing a fierce battle cry. In response, her warriors burst from their concealment and charged the startled Danaan, closing in on them from all sides.

  The patrol’s archers scrambled to fire at the onrushing enemy, but their fingers were numb and the drawstrings on their bows stiff from the cold. They managed only a single ineffective volley before the Stone Spirits fell on them.

  Shalana felt the tip of an arrow graze her cheek, leaving a thin furrow that quickly filled with blood. But the wound was superficial, and she ignored it as she drove her spear deep into the chest of the archer who had fired it.

  Spinning away from the mortally wounded foe, she yanked the spear free from his ribs and swung it around like a club, the butt end of the heavy shaft slamming into the skull of the Danaan who had rushed in at her from behind.

  All around her the Stone Spirits stabbed, hacked, and slashed at their enemies, their savage fury taking full advantage of the element of surprise. She felt a rapier slash against her side, but the thin blade lacked the force to slice through the thick, fur-covered hides protecting her torso.

  She spun on her assailant as the Danaan woman struck again, plunging the point of her blade deep into Shalana’s makeshift armor so that the tip bit into the flesh of her hip. Enraged by the pain, Shalana brought her spear slamming down on the other woman’s weapon, and the thin blade bowed and snapped beneath the force of her blow.

  A quick jab with the spear to the woman’s throat ended the battle. In the snow around her all the Danaan lay dead and all the Stone Spirits were still standing.

  “Find the horn!” Shalana ordered, and in response her warriors began rummaging through the bodies of their fallen foes.

  “Here,” one shouted a few seconds later, tossing the horn over to her.

  It was carved from the curved horn of some unfamiliar animal; hollowed out and fitted on the small end with a thin reed. According to Vaaler, the Danaan used the horns so the far-ranging patrols could communicate quickly even when separated by great distances. Shalana put it to her lips and blew a series of short and long blasts in the pattern he had taught her.

  A few seconds later she heard similar calls ringing out across the fields. Some were from the other ambushes, others were actual Danaan patrols hearing her call and relaying the message to the rest of the troops: Enemy forces attacking the left flank. Send all available rei
nforcements.

  Tucking the horn into her belt in case they needed it later, she and her warriors set off at a run in the opposite direction. A few minutes later they reached the rendezvous point; shortly after, they were joined by all the other groups that had staged similar ambushes: nearly three hundred in all. There wasn’t time for a head count, but she noticed a few had come back missing one or two of their people—apparently not all the ambushes had been as successful as hers.

  She waited a few more minutes to give Qarr time to get into position. The false alarm Shalana had sent out to lure the Danaan away wouldn’t work unless they actually saw enemy forces massing. The Black Wing chief had volunteered to lead several hundred clan warriors in a dangerous feint intended to keep the Danaan attention focused on the far side of the battlefield while Shalana and the others flanked the enemy and hit their supply wagons from the rear.

  You’re not there to engage them, Vaaler had reminded Qarr several times. You just want them to chase you. Stay out of range of the archers and run them around in circles.

  Soon she heard another series of horn signals: the Danaan had spotted Qarr’s company and were giving pursuit. With a hand signal she set her troops in motion. Using the hills for cover, they ran in a long, wide loop in the opposite direction, away from Qarr and the Danaan reinforcements until they could come at the enemy from behind.

  Unlike the patrols that stumbled into the ambush, the Danaan assigned to guard the supply wagons were tense and ready; they’d heard the horns and knew the enemy had come. But they were not expecting the barbarian horde that poured down from the surrounding hills, and once again the archers scrambled to ready their arrows.

  Running at a full sprint with Shalana at their head, the howling, screaming horde closed the gap quickly … just not quite quickly enough. A volley of arrows rained down on them, the deadly missiles killing at least a dozen and wounding many more. But the Easterners never faltered, and seconds later they slammed into the Danaan ranks.