Inheritors of Chaos

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “You want to make me cry harder?”

  “But…he is happy, so why—”

  “I can’t explain,” Lydia said, pushing away. “And now’s not the time.” She brushed her tears away. Fajir’s hadn’t fallen, but Lydia knew they’d been for her, not Nico, and that made her want to cry again. “We have to get to the Sun-Moon.”

  “Yes.”

  Lydia couldn’t help hoping that maybe this one time, they could change the future. Maybe Fajir could make a fantastic speech, and the Sun-Moon would be so moved, they’d put the fire out.

  Then Naos would come out of the mountains with armloads of metal for everyone, and they’d sing heartwarming songs and toast one another and live in happiness forever.

  She sighed. That would have been so lovely.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Patricia had learned much from Dillon, including knowing when he wanted to kill her.

  No doubt he thought he’d mastered the poker face, but she’d learned his tells: the way his lips twitched when he was holding back words, the way his face went completely still before he donned a placating smile. She couldn’t believe she’d ever fallen for his bullshit.

  She never would again. Right now, he was useful. As soon as he wasn’t…well, she’d see what happened then. Unlike him, she didn’t plan to kill people, not if there was another way.

  That was why Horace was still alive and had been able to escape, though. That didn’t piss her off so much. Her bridges were burned with Simon Lazlo anyway. Once Horace had returned to him, they could all either go their separate ways, or maybe even salvage their alliance. Simon didn’t seem like the kind to hunt her to the ends of Calamity for once kidnapping his boyfriend.

  Besides, Patricia could just give him Dillon. Simon would probably appreciate that more.

  When she and Dillon decided to visit the Sun-Moon, they left the unconscious paladin where he lay, taking their supplies and the paladin’s armor. Dillon wanted to wear it, but Patricia wasn’t about to let that happen. He’d wanted to do away with the paladin as well, saying something about having an enemy at their backs, but what could a lone man do to them? He wasn’t even a yafanai. He’d wake up, maybe find Horace, and the two of them could ride off into the sunset together.

  Or in this case, the whopping big fire.

  “You have to stay out of sight, Jonah,” she said as they walked. The Sun-Moon had dropped the shield that hid them earlier, and she could have found them blindfolded with the way they were throwing power around.

  “Yes, mistress.” Jonah had seemed downcast ever since Horace escaped, but she couldn’t be mad at him. She’d made him ultra-protective, so it wasn’t a surprise that he chose to take his eyes off Horace when she seemed threatened. She wanted to take his hand but didn’t want to put up with Dillon’s snorts or eye rolls or pithy comments. They walked in silence up the slope of the hill and over, through evergreens and boulders. The ground was thick with bluish needles and what looked like hairy fruit. She wondered if they were edible and made a note to ask her hill dwelling allies.

  Later, after the world was done burning down.

  Some kind of animal call ululated through the trees, setting Patricia’s spine on edge. Compared to the mine, the hills reverberated with sound that echoed off the rocks: chirping insects, a far-off throaty roar, and that trilling call that made her teeth ache the more she heard it. When the animal sounds began to die off, she was grateful. Until she heard the yells, cries of pain, and the rumble of churning earth.

  Patricia hurried ahead and broke through the trees to find the Sun-Moon camp not far below them. A group of hill dwellers fired at the camp from the heights, peppering it with arrows until their hiding places turned upside down under macro-psychokinetic power. Still, they scampered away, shooting, while the Sun-Moon worshipers returned fire. Soon, the Moon would have to stop her attacks or risk bringing a landslide down on her people.

  “Great,” Dillon said. “Which side do you want to join?”

  The answer seemed obvious. The hill dwellers could do nothing against Naos, and they weren’t the clan Patricia had already claimed. “If we stop the ones closest to us, we’ll look like heroes coming to help.”

  “Or someone joining in the attack,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe you should send a telepathic signal and tell them we’re coming.”

  A tingle passed over Patricia’s scalp, and she had just enough time to yelp before the ground bucked underneath her. Jonah grabbed hold of her arm as two of her followers tumbled down the slope. She watched in horror as the ground lifted over her like a thrown blanket, the earth torn from the hillside in order to bury them.

  Patricia flung up a macro-psychokinetic net and caught the dirt, shifting it away. Dillon ducked, as did her remaining four guards. Patricia turned, fighting Jonah’s grasp as she searched for the two who’d fallen.

  One lay on the rocks below, his legs twisted. He howled piteously. The other had fallen out of sight. Patricia brought her micro-psychokinetic powers to bear and focused, healing the fractured legs as quickly as she could. He yelped once, then went still.

  “Motherfuckers!” Dillon cried. “Not even giving us time to say why we’re here?” He reached for the pack that held the paladin’s armor and drew forth the sidearm. Kneeling, he sighted into the camp.

  “Wait!” Patricia sent out a telepathic signal, trying to tell the Sun-Moon she meant no harm, but they didn’t seem to be taking chances. Her signal was soundly rebuffed as they shielded themselves against telepathic intrusions.

  “I can’t see them,” Dillon said, the barrel of the gun moving around the camp. “Any ideas?”

  “They’re shielded. If I could get their attention, I could get them to listen!” She couldn’t just walk away from this opportunity. The Sun-Moon had to know they couldn’t take on Naos alone.

  “I’ll get their fucking attention,” Dillon said.

  She felt another tingle as he accessed his power. His eyes fluttered, and his body relaxed. She grabbed the gun and handed it to Jonah. The wind shifted, and the storm Dillon had called that morning surged closer, the clouds billowing like cream through coffee.

  The fire billowed north in a rush, and great gouts of smoke roiled through the trees like fog. Patricia used her power to keep the smoke away, noticing the same happening in the camp. The macro attacks on the hill dwellers ceased; Dillon had distracted the Moon, at least, and the Sun would be working to keep the fire from coming up the hillside.

  “Climb down and get Rian,” she said to two of her guards while Dillon worked. “And look for Vaun.” They obeyed and helped Rian up the slope. They’d seen no sign of Vaun, and when Patricia searched, she sensed nothing. Already dead. Her temples burned, but she had to forget grief and anger if she was going to work with the Sun-Moon. She wouldn’t say that to Dillon, not wanting to hear his snarky commentary.

  “Try them now,” Dillon said finally, his breathing hard and his face flushed. “They should be distracted enough for you to get through.”

  Patricia didn’t bother to soothe his fatigue. Better for everyone if he stayed tired. She tried another telepathic signal but found the shield still up. No matter what their other powers, telepathy was their meat and milk. She didn’t even know if one could survive the death of the other, they were so linked. Or if one did live, it wouldn’t be for long. “Nothing. Can’t get through.”

  “Fuck it then,” Dillon said as he stood. He glanced at his empty hands, then frowned at the gun tucked in Jonah’s belt. “Whatever. Let him blow his balls off, see if I care.”

  Patricia ignored that. “We can’t just leave empty-handed.”

  He pointed to the arrows bristling across the camp. “Do you want to walk in there and become a pincushion? Or maybe you’re thinking to kick the Sun-Moon’s followers’ asses until they listen to you. That makes people very receptive, from what I hear.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she mumbled, hating when he was right. Maybe the
Sun-Moon would listen if she gave them the Storm Lord trussed up like a holiday dinner. Too many people wanted a piece of him, that was the problem. Better to save him for Simon Lazlo, she supposed. At least he might hesitate before killing her when their partnership was at an end. She couldn’t be certain of the same treatment from the Sun-Moon.

  “Let’s head for Naos,” Patricia said with a sigh, fighting down the fear that roared inside her at the thought. She took a few deep breaths and kept her voice level. “We can see who else makes it. Maybe whoever does will be so beaten up and desperate for allies, they’ll listen before attacking.”

  He laughed. “That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard, but since I don’t have a better one…” He gestured for her to lead the way.

  She gave him a look but did as he suggested, putting Jonah and another of her guards between them. She noticed the way Dillon’s face had gone blank before he’d asked her to lead; he was thinking of another way to get rid of her. She thought again of putting him under a yoke of power, but lately, when she’d tried such things, she found it extremely difficult, as if trying to jog through a swamp. She’d stopped the Moon’s attacks and healed Rian just fine, but when it came to altering someone’s mind…she had to do it the old-fashioned way. By talking. What a pain.

  No doubt it was Naos. But when Patricia felt for any telepathic signals, she got pulled in the direction of the Sun-Moon or the sense of her breachie followers currently headed into the hills or some yafanai on the plains. Maybe there was just too much goddamned power flying around in too small a space.

  * * *

  No matter her words to Lydia, Fajir kept seeing Nico’s face as she walked through the camp, headed for the center, for her Lords. It might never leave her.

  She deserved that.

  No one paid her any mind; no one looked at widows at the best of times. Now, even with Lydia behind her, no one noticed. They wouldn’t notice Nico’s body either; his death would be laid at the attackers’ feet.

  Should she admit what she’d done? Claim she’d only sent him to his beloved partner? If her fellow widows accepted such a reason, they’d be likely to kill one another and return them all to partners long dead.

  No, Fajir killed him for Lydia, for the future, for unseen people she didn’t know who’d never see the faces of those who’d killed them. She’d never realized how important it was to look her targets in the eye. She’d thought she wanted to see their fear, but killing had never made her happy, not really. It was a task that needed doing. Maybe that was why she hadn’t struck down Halaan’s killer. After he was dead, people would have expected her to be happy.

  She hadn’t wanted that, not until she’d begun to see Lydia, her nemesis, in her dreams.

  “I’m sorry, Fajir,” Lydia said. She clung to Fajir’s left hand, keeping Fajir’s sword arm free.

  “I know.” Fajir didn’t doubt her sincerity. Lydia wept at Nico’s death, and she’d claimed to care for him, but she’d been weeping for Fajir, too. She wept for her enemies, mourned those she barely knew, and her heart bled for those she cared about. She made love into something as epic as war.

  “Stay here,” Fajir said as she caught sight of the Lords. They were turning back and forth from the attack to the fire, which was gusting this way, tendrils of it winking out before they could reach the foothills.

  “No fucking way,” Lydia said.

  Fajir had to laugh. She pulled Lydia close, kissing her. “I won’t be able to focus if you put yourself in danger.”

  Lydia bit her lip, standing so close that her features blurred. “I can’t…”

  “You will. In your vision, you saw me walk away.”

  With a sob, Lydia looked at the blaze again, tears flooding the cheeks of her beautiful face. Fajir followed her gaze. A herd of ossors rushed from a ravine as the fire flushed them out; they keened and ran, but the fire overtook one, and Lydia turned away. The way she’d described her power, she followed the line of one person’s future, but if that target met another person in her vision, then she could follow that one.

  Fajir wondered if Lydia had started this vision by seeing her own future, then hopped among the army, maybe even the plains dwellers; groups of them could be dying just out of sight, the fire stretched so far.

  Fajir waited a heartbeat, wishing she could say what she was feeling. Halaan would have wanted her to admit her love, but she couldn’t, not in this place of violence and death, not with her own death in front of her. And she had no doubt her death was near; no one should survive killing their gods.

  Slowly, Fajir leaned in and whispered in Lydia’s ear. “When we meet again, in a world made of starlight, I will kiss you and Halaan and your Freddie, and we will all live in peace.” She tore away before Lydia could respond or weep or undo Fajir’s determination as only a true nemesis could.

  The wind gusted, and a blade of grass seemed to hover near Fajir’s shoulder, the strand half eaten by embers. Fajir caught it in one hand and snuffed it out before the wind carried it away. A small fire burned between her and the Lords, as if they’d thought to cook something before the attack had begun. Such a mundane thought on such a day.

  It masked her approach nicely.

  She leapt the flames, and a pair of worshipers guarding the Sun-Moon moved to intercept her before pausing, surely wondering what a widow was doing approaching the Lords with her blade drawn. Fajir darted right, slicing one of their legs, then brought her sword up and gouged the arm of the other before nicking his head. Both fell, their cries lost in the sound of the blaze coming closer.

  If the Sun had only extinguished it, Fajir would have left him alone, but it seemed as if he kept trying to turn the fire back to the south, unable to let go of a plan once it was in motion. He wouldn’t be reasoned with, not in the future Lydia had seen. She saw her gods now for who they were: two-hundred-year-olds who really should have known better than to start new circles of violence.

  She’d learned the same lesson in less than a year.

  The thought made her smile as she stepped over the wounded worshipers. Her Lords had their eyes half-open as they watched north and south. One of the other pairs that guarded them turned, paused to stare at Fajir and the wounded, then shouted, getting more attention.

  Now or never.

  Fajir dashed, keeping low, hoping that if the Lords opened their eyes, she’d stay out of sight long enough. One step brought her close enough to see the sweat on their faces, but she could only reach one before the guards were upon her.

  The Sun had to die first. To stop the flames.

  His skin parted easily. Strange, she’d thought killing him would feel different than ending normal people, but the blood that poured from his throat was every bit as red. The disbelief in his eyes was the same as everyone else’s. Not even a god could believe their life was at an end.

  Fajir heard a shriek and began to turn. Her feet lifted off the ground, and she flew into the air, wondering if she’d died, if this was her spirit escaping. But her hair fluttered around her, and she rose high above the flames but could still see the smoke, could fill the chill of the wind. She arced over the flames, and the ground rushed toward her. Terror filled her mind as she dropped like a stone, and her chest seized as she screamed.

  Darkness clawed at her, overruling her thoughts, and she gladly gave in to the panic, her last thought one of relief that she wouldn’t feel the pain of impact.

  * * *

  Cordelia saw Samira off to warn the plains dwellers, then looked at her motley army. She’d be happy to go into battle with any of them, but they weren’t nearly as impressive as they’d been with a giant tree behind them.

  They were, however, much closer to the swamp than they’d been before. Cordelia wondered if Pool had been unconsciously running for water. Or maybe it wasn’t unconscious at all. They could still see the smoke in the distance, but the wind had sprung up from the south, and a huge storm gathered on the horizon. Maybe the Storm Lord was doing something good f
or a change.

  Cordelia wasn’t prepared to give him any credit, though.

  Pool approached where Cordelia stood with one foot up on a boulder as she scanned the plains and the nearby trees. “My drushka and the humans who will remain aboard my tree are ready, Sa.”

  “Good. I want to scout first in my astral form.” Cordelia didn’t need to turn to know Nettle was frowning; she could almost feel two holes burning into her neck.

  “You did not listen when I told you to stay in your body before,” Nettle said as Cordelia turned. “And you suffered for it.”

  “I know.”

  “Simon did not listen when I tried to hurry him from the Sun-Moon camp, and he suffered for it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Nettle raised a hand, her lichen-colored eyes so narrow Cordelia could barely see the color. “Samira did not listen when I told her we must escape rather than argue, and do you know what happened?”

  “Everything worked out fine?”

  Nettle’s stare had not an ounce of humor. “You will listen now and not repeat that suffering.”

  Pool turned away, an illusion of privacy for her human allies.

  “I have to look,” Cordelia said, “to find a way around the fire. Simon will be with me. Pool will be with me, and so will Miriam, and she’s a telepath. We’ll be ready for anything.”

  “Including Naos? This Miriam is a match for her? Then we shall rejoice and let her go into the mountains alone!”

  “One peep from Naos, and I’ll rush back to you, I swear!” Cordelia took her hands. “You’ve seen me throw myself into danger plenty of times. Why is astral projecting so different?”

  Nettle’s stony expression melted into one of sadness. “I had to carry your soulless body once before, Sa. It is a memory to make the night cold.”

  Cordelia pulled her close, even with the armor. “When Naos snapped my tether, it wasn’t fun for anyone. And I’m sorry. But Simon wasn’t with me then. Neither was Pool. We weren’t prepared. Not even Naos can sever the connection I have to the drushka.”