The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “He never fought a battle he couldn’t win,” Shalana said by way of apology once he was gone. “This is difficult for him.”

  “I still believe Norr and the others will return,” Vaaler told her. “If you saw what Keegan was able to do with the Ring, you’d believe in the power of the Sword, too.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, reaching her hand around the back of his neck and pulling him close. “But you’re my fool,” she said, planting a quick, tender kiss on his lips.

  Despite the grimness of their situation, in the dim light of the fire she could see that Vaaler was smiling when she pulled away.

  She was suddenly struck by how young he was. He seemed so wise and worldly, it was easy to forget he was almost a decade younger than she was.

  “Tomorrow when the battle begins,” she said, suddenly fiercely protective of the young man, “you can lead the refugees up into the mountains. It will buy a few more days. Just in case you’re right and Norr really is coming back.”

  “I can’t do that,” Vaaler told her. “I’m not leaving you. I’ve decided to stay and fight by your side.”

  Shalana was touched by the gesture, but she knew how much it would cost him.

  “You said it yourself—you can’t raise weapons against your own people.”

  “They cast me out,” Vaaler insisted. “And the clans took me in. I want to stand with them. And with you.”

  “Silly boy,” Shalana teased him. “So young and foolish.”

  “I’m not a child,” Vaaler told her, suddenly serious and earnest. “I’m a man and I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Shalana said wickedly, pulling him close and tearing at his clothes.

  Vaaler looked around, embarrassed. But there was nobody near them.

  “Tonight?” he said, even as his hands began to fumble at her own clothes. “Are you sure?”

  “If this is our last night alive,” Shalana told him as she dragged him down to the cold snow, “then let’s make it count.”

  Chapter 37

  CASSANDRA FELT LIKE she was moving through a dense fog. The world around her had dissolved into gray. Exhausted, her Sight was barely able to focus on her and her horse, let alone her surroundings.

  She knew it was night, of course—even in her current state she could feel the gloom pressing in on her. And she knew she was close to Callastan: she could smell the sea and the docks of the port city on the breeze blowing in from the west. Beyond this, however, she was aware of little else.

  The Crawling Twins were somewhere still behind her though they weren’t close enough for her to sense them. Despite this, she still felt the cold grip of fear slowly crushing her. Her stomach was twisted in knots and her heart couldn’t stop racing. It had been that way ever since she’d fled the gruesome massacre of the Inquisitors. The images of the Twins literally ripping her former brethren apart were burned on her psyche.

  She didn’t remember most of her journey across the Southlands. Her mind, scarred by the trauma of what she had witnessed, had abandoned her body for long stretches. Only instinct and dedication to her cause had kept her moving forward.

  And me, the voice inside her head that was not her own chimed in. I guided your steps. I kept you safe. Do not forget that.

  Cassandra had finally recognized the voice though she still wasn’t sure if it was really Rexol speaking to her or simply the memory of her old master bubbling up from her subconscious. In either case, she was determined to ignore it.

  If it really was Rexol—if he was somehow still alive, despite his body’s being reduced to ash—then her extreme reaction to the Crawling Twins’ attack was more understandable: the wizard had used Chaos magic to save her, and the backlash had nearly driven her insane.

  As terrifying as that option was, however, it was better than the alternative. If Rexol wasn’t the cause of her emotional breakdown, then she was simply losing control—her sanity whittled away by the Crown itself.

  The Talisman is too strong for any mortal mind, she told herself. Even the Pontiff, with all his training, only dared to use it a handful of times.

  You are stronger than the Pontiff, Rexol insisted. Chaos flows in your blood. Use the Crown and claim the power that is rightfully yours.

  Cassandra didn’t bother to formulate a response.

  She felt something looming ahead of her in the gray void. Concentrating, she pushed her awareness outward and was rewarded with the dim outline of Callastan’s buildings rising up in the night, illuminated by lamps and torches scattered about the city streets.

  You’re here, Rexol declared. Now what?

  She needed to find a ship, one that could take her someplace the Crawling Twins couldn’t follow.

  Even if you cross the entire ocean, they will still find you. Stop running. Use the Crown and destroy them!

  Cassandra’s horse had slowed to a weary walk; like all the mounts before, it was nearing exhaustion. Grateful for the animal’s service, she swung herself down from the saddle to walk beside it as she approached the city.

  Get off the main road! Someone will see you!

  She understood the individual words, but her fragile mind still struggled with the message they were trying to convey. She was heading toward Callastan; that was all that mattered.

  And then suddenly two armed soldiers were approaching her: city guards. Seeing normal, ordinary humans helped anchor Cassandra back in reality, and she shook her head, dispelling most of the fog that had enveloped her.

  The men stopped a few feet away, lowering their spears and pointing them in her direction.

  “Identify yourself!” one of them ordered.

  Tell these fools to get out of your way! Rexol sneered. The Purge has made everyone in the Southlands fear the Order. Tell them you are here on the Pontiff’s business and watch them scurry off!

  Cassandra didn’t like the idea of lying to the men, but she knew the longer she was delayed by them the closer the Crawling Twins would get. For their own sakes, she decided to follow the mage’s advice.

  “I do not answer to you,” she told them, stepping forward into the light so they could see her pure white eyes. “I serve only the Pontiff.”

  The soldiers’ eyes went wide with fear and their faces blanched as they recognized what she was. But instead of moving aside, they raised their spears and began to move slowly toward her.

  “All servants of the Order are banned from Callastan,” one of them said, licking his lips nervously. “You are under arrest!”

  “If you try to resist, we will have to kill you,” the other added, raising his spear for emphasis.

  Cassandra was no Inquisitor, but all who trained in the Monastery were taught the basic martial arts. She might be able to disarm the soldiers without injuring them, but she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  Use the Crown! The Talisman will give you the power to destroy them!

  The Crown was tucked inside a bag strapped over one shoulder; with no saddle for her horse she had no other way to carry it as she rode. It might be possible to grab it before the soldiers realized what was happening, but even if she did, she still didn’t dare to unleash the Chaos trapped inside.

  The first soldier was advancing slowly, his spear lowered. Cassandra felt a sudden push on her emotions; rage flared up within her. Realizing Rexol was trying to drive her into a fury to attack the innocent guards, she pushed back against him.

  Everything around her disappeared as the veil of gray mist fell over her, her Sight blinded as she battled the wizard for control of her own mind. Rexol was strong, but she refused to surrender. And then, as suddenly as the battle of wills began, it was over and she felt the wizard’s presence retreating.

  He’s only regrouping. Getting ready to try again.

  As her awareness returned, she was surprised to find herself in a small, dark room. The stone walls were damp and covered
with moss and mildew, and a foul stench hung in the air. There was only one exit; a heavy wooden door with a small, barred window through which she could see the flickering light of a faint torch.

  With horrified amazement, she realized her battle with Rexol had lasted more than just a few seconds. She had blacked out for minutes or even hours, completely unaware of anything that had happened.

  The guards arrested you, Cassandra. They threw you in this cell while they wait for morning so someone with more authority can decide what to do with you.

  But Cassandra knew that when morning came, it wouldn’t be a judge or city official who came for her.

  The Crawling Twins!

  “Please!” Cassandra cried out, rushing toward the door and pounding on it with her fist. “You have to let me go! Please, somebody listen—you are all in danger!”

  There was, of course, no answer.

  There’s only one way out, Cassandra, Rexol said, and she realized the bag with the Crown was still slung over her shoulder.

  He used magic on the guards so they wouldn’t notice it.

  I called upon the power of the Crown, Cassandra. So can you. Place it on your head and free yourself before it’s too late.

  “Never,” Cassandra vowed, defiantly speaking the word out loud. “Never!”

  Keegan was up as the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon. He stood up slowly, reluctantly unwrapping himself from the warmth of the blanket as he brushed away the snow.

  Jerrod was already up. The monk needed little sleep, and given Scythe’s outburst yesterday, Keegan suspected he’d spent the entire night awake and alert, watching her in case she tried to attack him again.

  I was holding her when I fell asleep, the young man remembered. She must have woken and pulled away in the night.

  Ignoring the twinge of rejection he felt, he looked from side to side until he noticed Scythe. She was sitting on the snow several yards away from where they had slept, facing away from him.

  Looking back the way we came. Back toward Norr.

  “What time did she get up?” he asked Jerrod, speaking quietly so she wouldn’t hear.

  “Over an hour ago,” the monk answered.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s getting worse.”

  Alarmed, Keegan rushed to her side, his feet crunching over the windblown crust that had formed on the snow. She didn’t react to his approach; not even when he gently laid a hand on her shoulder and crouched beside her.

  “Scythe?” he said. “Scythe, can you hear me?”

  She didn’t answer. She simply stared off into the distance, her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

  Keegan sighed. He’d hoped after her emotional release last night she’d be feeling better. But she seemed to have slipped back into her catatonic state.

  “Come on, Scythe,” he said, standing up. “It’s time to go.”

  She didn’t move. Keegan looked over at Jerrod, who only stared back without expression. He reached down and gently slid his arms under hers, then tried to lift her up. It was like trying to move deadweight, made even more awkward by his missing hand, and he only raised her a few inches before his grip slipped and she fell back hard to the ground.

  “I’m sorry, Scythe,” Keegan gasped, but she didn’t even seem to notice.

  Without acknowledging his efforts or his presence, she readjusted herself until she was back in the exact same position as before.

  Keegan walked back over to Jerrod.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” the monk told him. “We go on without her.”

  “We can’t just leave her sitting there in the snow!” Keegan exclaimed. “She’ll die out here!”

  “Obviously that is what she wants.”

  Keegan shook his head. “Scythe’s a fighter. She’s hurt. Damaged. But she wouldn’t ever give up. And I won’t give up on her!”

  He expected Jerrod to argue with him, but the monk didn’t reply. Instead, he turned his head in the direction of a small hill in the distance.

  “Someone is coming.”

  A few seconds later a figure emerged from behind the mound. Bent over nearly double, it moved toward them with slow, shuffling steps. As it drew closer, Keegan finally recognized who it was.

  “Hadawas?” he called out, his mind boggled by the mystery of how their guide had somehow caught up with them.

  “That’s not Hadawas,” Jerrod said, raising Daemron’s Sword.

  The old man suddenly stood up straight, laughing. But it sounded more like a woman; high-pitched and shrill.

  No, not a woman. A bird!

  The figure shimmered, the illusion wrapped around it falling away like pieces of broken glass to reveal a creature Keegan had seen in his nightmares of the Monastery being destroyed. Its skin was black and smooth, and it had the body of a lean, muscular woman. But its hands were claws, it had massive black wings growing from its back, and the head resembled that of some monstrous bird of prey.

  Parting its hooked beak, the Minion spoke.

  “I am Raven,” it squawked, its female voice sharp and crackling with power. “You have taken what rightfully belongs to my master. Surrender the Talismans to me and you shall live!”

  The compulsion of her words was so strong, Keegan took a half step forward before Jerrod stopped him by seizing his arm, breaking the spell.

  “The Ring,” the monk hissed. “Put it on!”

  As he reached for the chain around his neck, Jerrod charged the creature. Raven threw back her head and lifted her arms to the sky, shrieking out arcane words that made Keegan’s skin crawl.

  In response, twin pillars of green fire came shooting down toward them from above. Jerrod dove to the side, avoiding the flames. Keegan—reacting instinctively—called on Chaos to save himself. He was instantly bathed in a soft blue glow, but he wasn’t wearing the Ring yet, and he wasn’t strong enough to ward off the Minion’s magic.

  The green flames devoured the blue barrier and engulfed him. He screamed and collapsed to the ground as his flesh bubbled and blistered from the heat. And then the flames vanished as Jerrod fell on Raven, Daemron’s sword a whirling blur of glowing red steel.

  Keegan fell forward, the cool snow offering little relief to the hideous burns covering his flesh. He lifted his head to see Raven and Jerrod locked in a vicious battle, both combatants moving so quickly it was impossible for his mind to process the action.

  A fresh wave of pain hit him, so intense he thought he would black out. Knowing he was going into shock from his injuries, he managed to roll onto his side so that he could see Scythe.

  She hadn’t moved at all, completely oblivious to the battle raging only fifty feet away. He tried to call out to her, but his burned lips and cracked, swollen tongue made the words stick in his throat. And then Keegan’s eyelids fluttered, and the world went black.

  Vaaler stood tall among the ranks of the clan warriors as dawn peeked over the mountains that made up the Giant’s Maw. Like the others, he was clad in a haphazard assortment of hides and furs—a sharp contrast to the cured-leather vests and uniforms of the enemy.

  The clans were arranged in a long, loosely bunched line a dozen rows deep: a wall of defenders determined to hold back the enemy from the refugee camp behind them for as long as possible. True to her vow, Shalana was in the front, immediately to Vaaler’s left. Whatever happened today, whenever and however they met their end, they had both vowed to face it side by side.

  As the sunlight crept across the battlefield, he heard a rising roar of anticipation from the gathered Danaan troops. But the warriors standing with Vaaler were silent.

  They’re used to fighting for honor and glory. But this is different. This is about survival, plain and simple. There is nothing noble in what we do here, and there will be no songs sung or legends told of what happens today.

  A horn blew, the sound quickly echoed by a dozen others. And the Danaan surged forward. Shalana r
aised her spear and let loose a fierce battle cry as she, Vaaler, and the united forces of all the clans charged ahead to meet the enemy.

  Vaaler had just enough time to realize the ogre hadn’t joined the rush; the beast was standing still as stone near the back of the Danaan lines. But before he could wonder about it, the two armies met with a deafening crash, and everything descended into madness.

  Armed with his rapier, Vaaler cut and jabbed at his enemies, moving nimbly among the soldiers from both sides chopping, hacking, slashing, and stabbing furiously at each other all around him. In the confusion he couldn’t recognize the faces of friend or foe; there was too much happening too quickly for his mind to process such minute details. But even in the heat of battle, he was still aware of Shalana beside him, laying foe after foe low with her deadly spear.

  The tide of battle swept them forward as there was a momentary break in the Danaan lines, and Vaaler and the others poured through. But reinforcements arrived almost immediately to seal the breach, and the clans were forced to fall back again.

  Someone slammed into Vaaler from behind; in the crush of bodies he didn’t know if it was friend or foe. The impact sent him staggering toward a waiting Danaan soldier, and Vaaler threw himself face-first to the ground to avoid being gutted by a wild slash of his enemy’s blade. He rolled onto his back and thrust upward, the point of his rapier slipping through a seam between the jerkin and belt of the other man and plunging deep into his belly.

  Clutching at his mortal wound, he toppled backward, and both of them were overrun by the mayhem as the ebb and flow of battle washed over them. Soldiers from both sides trampled them down, heavy boots kicking and stomping heedlessly as desperate men and women fought for purchase on the uneven ground.

  Twice Vaaler managed to get to his hands and knees, only to be knocked down again each time. A toe caught him in the ribs, a heel struck the side of his head, leaving him woozy and disoriented. For a second the world swam in an ocean of silver stars.

  Vaaler bit down hard on his tongue, the pain jolting him back to consciousness just in time to see a heavy axe swinging down toward him. He rolled to the side and the head buried itself deep in the ground. But before he could rise the man pulled out a short, thick sword and lunged toward his prone and helpless foe.