The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)

by Drew Karpyshyn

  Rexol didn’t even seem to notice. He continued to draw Chaos from the Crown, reveling in the power of Old Magic. The steady influx of power began to build, pulsing out through the floor beneath Cassandra’s feet.

  With her new awareness, Cassandra felt it rolling through the entire city. Everyone it touched was struck with a sudden, violent madness. Some turned on each other, some turned on themselves. But most simply poured out into the streets and quickly banded together in savage mobs: smashing and burning everything they could reach and attacking anyone else who crossed their path.

  It’s over, Cassandra said, projecting her thoughts at Rexol in an effort to manipulate him the way he had tried to control her. The Twins are dead. Take off the Crown!

  He didn’t respond, and she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. What was one small voice amid the millions that assailed him through the Crown?

  Rexol continued to channel Chaos through him and out into the mortal world, oblivious of the consequences. Old Magic was the primal essence of creation—a force so great even the Gods had been wary of it. They had used it to shape and form the mortal world; now Rexol was unwittingly tearing it apart.

  The ground began to shake, the tremor quickly escalating to a massive earthquake. Older buildings began to crack and crumble, great chunks of stone toppling into the street.

  It’s too much! Cassandra screamed. You have to stop!

  But Rexol couldn’t stop. In trying to control the Crown, he’d dared to touch the very depths of the Burning Sea, and now he was lost in the ecstasy of absolute power. And then Cassandra realized it wasn’t just Callastan that he was destroying. The raw, undiluted power of Old Magic was beginning to tear away the very fabric of the Legacy itself!

  Jerrod threw himself at Raven, pressing the action to keep the Minion from targeting Keegan again with another spell. He didn’t know how badly the young man was hurt, but with his Sight, he could tell Keegan was still alive.

  Daemron’s Sword moved like it had a will of its own in his hand, almost as if he were the weapon and it the wielder. The Minion was quick and cunning, slashing at him with her beak and claws and battering him with her wings. But Jerrod was able to anticipate and counter every move, fighting the creature to a standstill.

  “Scythe!” he called out, leaping back to avoid a hooked talon that threatened to slice open his biceps even as he countered with a quick cut that just narrowly missed Raven’s thigh. “Keegan’s hurt!”

  The catatonic woman didn’t move, and Jerrod was forced to turn all his attention to the Minion trying to eviscerate him.

  When Scythe used the Sword against the Guardian, she defeated him easily.

  But she was touched by Chaos; like Keegan, she was born under the Blood Moon. Jerrod, on the other hand, had spent his entire life learning to deny and internalize the power he’d been born with.

  Raven leapt back, and Jerrod feared she might be trying to flee. Not wanting her to escape into the sky only to come after them another time, he directed his fury at one of her wings. The Sword made contact, slicing clean through and leaving the membrane torn and tattered.

  Raven shrieked in surprise and pain and lashed out with another spell. A bone-chilling frost sprang from the ground and raced up Jerrod’s legs, encasing them in ice. But as it reached his belt he was able to break free, shattering the spell before Raven had time to take advantage.

  She hissed in anger, the sound closer to that of a serpent than a bird.

  The Sword absorbs Chaos, he remembered, thinking back to how the Guardian had survived Keegan’s efforts to destroy him with the Ring. It blunts her magic. Protects me.

  As the combatants circled each other warily, Jerrod realized the sword was helping him in another way. Despite their exertions, he wasn’t the least bit tired or fatigued. The same could not be said of his foe.

  Raven was moving slower as fatigue took its tool. The change was virtually imperceptible, but in two evenly matched combatants it would be enough to shift the battle.

  Jerrod moved in to finish her off with a series of quick thrusts and jabs, but she summoned enough strength to avoid his attacks, the Sword carving the air fractions of an inch from her flesh as she spun out of the way.

  The monk was preparing another pass when the sky above them suddenly turned dark. Bizarre violet clouds blotted out the sun, and silver lightning flashed. Raven seemed to draw strength from the storm, and she came at him with renewed fury. But she still wasn’t quick enough to catch him with her rending talons or stabbing beak, and as he darted out of the way Daemron’s blade lashed out of its own accord and left a long, thin gash on the Minion’s left arm.

  They circled each other once more, probing and prodding for an opening. And then, suddenly, Raven’s eyes glittered with malevolent cunning. Bracing himself for her next ploy, Jerrod felt the warmth of soft magic flowing over his body. But instead of harming him, her spell seemed intended to heal. The bruises, nicks, and cuts he’d suffered during their battle vanished. And then the milky white veil covering his eyes melted away, and for the first time in thirty years he could see.

  His Sight gave him an awareness of his surroundings, but it was something very different from the sensations of ordinary vision. With his eyes suddenly functioning again, he was overloaded with stimuli; his mystical perceptions and his mundane sight warring with each other for dominance and control.

  Disoriented and confused, the monk staggered back, slashing wildly with the Sword to ward off Raven’s inevitable charge and praying the blade would somehow still protect him.

  As a hooked claw ripped open his cheek, he realized even the Talisman had its limits.

  Fleeing the ogre as it indiscriminately slaughtered anyone in reach, Vaaler only paused to look back when he heard the Danaan horns calling for a full retreat.

  We’ve won! he thought, his pace slowing in stunned disbelief.

  Shalana took several more steps before realizing she had left him behind.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted back at him over her shoulder.

  “The Danaan are falling back,” he told her. “It’s over.”

  “Not yet it isn’t,” she said, her eyes looking past him.

  Turning around, Vaaler saw the ogre standing in the middle of the carnage, surrounded by great piles of Eastern and Danaan bodies. For a moment it seemed the creature would pursue the fleeing Danaan, but then it paused.

  It seemed to sniff the air, its head snapping from side to side as if looking for a scent it had suddenly lost. It let out a howl of frustration and slammed its fists on the ground, its head scanning the fleeing mortals as it searched for victims to suffer the wrath of its disappointment.

  The beast’s eyes settled on Vaaler and Shalana, lighting up with a malevolent spark of recognition as it let out a wet, bellowing roar.

  It remembers us. We escaped it once, but it won’t happen again.

  The beast came at them, moving so fast they didn’t even have time to run. But instead of trampling them, it leapt over them. Vaaler turned his head to follow the beast as it soared twenty feet in the air to land behind them, coming face-to-face with a blue-skinned giant charging down from the Maw’s peaks toward them.

  Shalana’s mouth gaped in amazement, and Vaaler could only stare dumbfounded and blink. The newcomer was a heavily muscled man, naked save for a loincloth and a pair of massive black boots. In his hand he clutched an enormous spear, which he thrust into the ogre’s gut as he barreled into the beast at a full run.

  The ogre knocked the giant flying with a backhand slap, then reached down and broke the shaft of the spear, leaving the tip embedded in its own belly. The giant was already back on his feet, and—armed with nothing but his bare hands—he threw himself at the ogre.

  The two behemoths wrestled each other to the ground, rolling back and forth as the perplexed clan warriors screamed and yelled and scrambled out of the way.

  Grappling together, their fight became a brutal struggle. The ogre bit and g
nawed at the giant’s shoulder, neck, ear, and face, ravaging the flesh. But the giant refused to let go, its long arms wrapped tightly around the ogre’s chest and arms in a bear hug as he tried to squeeze the life from the monster.

  The ogre took the giant’s eye next, gashing it with one of its tusks as it chewed relentlessly at his face. But the giant never faltered, his massive muscles contracting tighter and tighter as he tightened his grip on his foe. The ogre began to wheeze, spitting up a putrid green liquid from its compressed lungs. The giant coughed and sputtered as the noxious fluid crawled down his throat, but he never relented.

  The ogre began to whine like a whipped dog, thrashing around in a futile attempt to break the giant’s hold. The blue-skinned titan threw his head back and let out a fierce scream, his muscles shaking with exertion. And then there was a loud crack, like a dozen enormous oaks snapping all at once. The ogre shuddered, then went limp, its spine broken.

  The giant released his grip and rolled off the beast, his mutilated eye weeping fluid onto his mangled, blood-smeared face. Still on his knees, he reached down into the ogre’s stomach and pulled out the tip of his spear. Then he raised it up with both hands and brought it down, piercing the monster’s heart.

  For many minutes none of the warriors dared to approach the wounded giant, who knelt with his head bowed beside the body of his vanquished foe. Finally, Vaaler inched forward, moving cautiously. He didn’t need to look back to know that Shalana was right behind him.

  The giant turned its head as they approached, looking at them with its one good eye.

  “I am the Guardian,” he said, his voice so deep it made Vaaler’s teeth vibrate. “Norr sent me to help you.”

  Shalana gasped, but Keegan only nodded.

  “Are they still alive?” he asked.

  “I gave them Daemron’s Sword,” the Guardian answered, speaking slowly as if every word was an exertion. “But I made them promise to go help Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra?” Vaaler said, the name triggering a memory of someone his Master had mentioned many years ago. “Rexol’s apprentice? The one he lost to the Order?”

  “She has the Crown,” the Guardian gasped. “She’s fled to Callastan.”

  “You’re hurt,” Shalana said, stepping toward him. “Let us help you.”

  The Guardian shook his head, his movements so slow they looked surreal.

  “Poison,” he whispered. “From the ogre. There is nothing to be done.”

  He coughed once, then bowed his head, closed his eyes, and was forever still.

  Jerrod lashed out with Daemron’s Sword, swinging it toward the confusing collage of overlapping images assaulting his senses in the hopes of landing a single lucky blow. But he struck only air, his double-sighted blindness sending the blade well wide of its mark.

  From the corner of one eye he thought he saw Raven flicker into view beside him, and he spun wildly only to realize too late that she had come from the other side. She drove a claw deep into his side, twisting as she pulled it out. The pain made Jerrod arch his back, his arm held wide, and Raven slapped the blade from his hand, sending it skittering across the snow.

  Jerrod sank to his knees, and the Minion clutched the sides of his head with her sharp fingers. The monk screamed as he felt her feeding on his thoughts, sucking the very memories from his mind. He tried to resist, and for a moment he held her at bay. But he was losing blood quickly, and Raven was too strong to fight for long.

  And then suddenly the vicious psychic assault stopped and the claws clutching his head fell away. Still confused by the twin visions, he was just able to make out the woman’s body lying on the snow beside him, but her avian head was several feet away, the red light in her eyes replaced by the blank stare of death.

  Standing over her decapitated corpse, clutching Daemron’s Sword, was Scythe.

  The earthquake still rocked Callastan; the floor and walls of the single-story jail had developed massive, rapidly spreading cracks. Cassandra screamed over and over at the mad wizard to stop before he brought the entire city—and even the Legacy—crumbling down, but Rexol was completely oblivious.

  He can’t hear me, but there is still a link between us!

  Rexol had put his mark on her when she was a child, binding her to him. He’d used that connection to make her free him from the Monastery prison. He’d used it to manipulate her into using the Crown. He’d even used it to claim her body as his own.

  But the bond works both ways.

  Rexol was the greatest Chaos mage to walk the Southlands since the Cataclysm. But she was the one who had carried the Crown across the entire breadth of the mortal world, not him. She was the one who had borne that great burden, not him. And she was the one touched by Chaos, born in fire under the Burning Moon.

  I’m stronger than he is!

  Through the heightened awareness of the Crown, she felt the Legacy shudder and shake. She could sense the armies of the Slayer massing on the other side, eager and hungry to return. There was no time left to wait, no time to gather her strength. If she didn’t act now, it would be too late. Everything she had devoted her life to, the only thing that ever mattered—the protection and preservation of the Legacy—would be lost.

  Opening herself up, Cassandra called upon the power of the Crown as she seized hold of Rexol’s mind. Even once removed, she could feel the incredible rush of Old Magic as he channeled the Talisman. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall under its spell just as he had.

  Rexol! she shouted, letting the Talisman’s power flow through her. The Crown is not meant for you!

  Fueled by the power of Old Magic, her thoughts drove themselves into the mage’s consciousness like a nail through a block of wood. The head of her own body snapped back as if someone had slapped it, and she knew that this time he’d heard her.

  The power of Old Magic is mine! he howled back at her. I am a God!

  You are nothing! she shouted, wrapping herself around the wizard’s consciousness, ripping it free from her body and hurling him back into the Crown.

  In an instant, everything changed as her own mind snapped back into her suddenly vacant body. She was no longer looking at herself from the outside; she was no longer a helpless prisoner forced to watch another wearing her face and flesh.

  But now she felt the full force of Chaos as it raged through her, threatening to sweep her away.

  It’s incredible. Glorious! Magnificent!

  And then she snatched the Crown from her head, banishing the Chaos only seconds before the Legacy gave way. Swaying on her feet, Cassandra reached out with her Sight, seeking any breach or tear in the barrier.

  Feeling nothing, she tried to walk toward the open door of her cell, only to collapse as her exhausted, traumatized body surrendered to the blackness.

  Epilogue

  THE DANAAN WERE gone, fleeing back the way they had come, retreating to their hidden cities in the North Forest. But as he helped the warriors sort out the bodies strewn about the battlefield it was hard for Vaaler to believe the clans had won.

  There were too many dead to bury, so the bodies were being sorted into two massive funeral piles—one to honor the fallen Easterners, the other to cleanse away all trace of the invading Danaan.

  He tried not to look at the faces of any Danaan he came across, but every so often he would see someone he recognized. He tried not to react—they had all lost friends and family in the war—but it was still shocking to see the faces of those he had served with on patrol.

  “You still think of them as your people, don’t you?” Shalana asked, noticing his reaction.

  “In some ways,” Vaaler admitted. “It’s hard to forget what I spent my whole life believing.

  “Ever since I was a child, they told me it was my destiny to be king,” he said. “I was supposed to guide my people through times of trouble. I was supposed to protect them and keep them safe.”

  “Sounds like what you did for us,” Shalana told him. “Maybe your destiny is sti
ll to be a king … though among our people we prefer the title of chief.”

  “The thanes welcomed me as an adviser,” Vaaler said with a shake of his head. “But it’s you they followed.”

  “We’re a package deal,” Shalana said, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. “I think everyone understands that.”

  She kissed him, and Vaaler simply enjoyed the moment for as long as it lasted. But once it was done, he said, “So what happens now?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “But the Guardian’s arrival made everyone a believer in the legends you and Norr were following. Even my father can’t deny them now.

  “If your friend Keegan really is destined to save the world,” she said, “maybe we should try to find some way to help him.”

  Keegan, Scythe, and Jerrod walked along in silence, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the unnaturally rapidly decaying corpse of Raven as possible before nightfall. The monk was in the lead, healed of his wounds by the Sword, just as Keegan had been. He was still struggling to reconcile his Sight with his restored vision, but he seemed to be adapting quickly: he was already able to walk without difficulty.

  They were still heading southwest toward Callastan to find Cassandra and the Crown; despite everything that had happened, their mission had not changed. But now they were three instead of four, and instead of Jerrod carrying Daemron’s Sword it was Scythe.

  Even handicapped by the restoration of his eyes, Keegan had expected Jerrod to offer some objection purely on principle. Instead, the monk had surprised him.

  “I finally understand the prophecy of the Children of Fire,” the monk had explained before they set out. “I now realize why it was difficult for our prophets and seers to identify the savior.

  “Your destiny is tied even more closely to Keegan’s than I ever imagined,” he’d told Scythe. “There is not one savior, but three; just as there are three Talismans. The Sword is meant for you, just as the Ring is meant for Keegan and the Crown is meant for Cassandra.”