Controlling Chaos (The Five Kingdoms Book 12)

by Toby Neighbors

  She was shaky on her feet, but once she was upright she felt better. It still hurt to breathe and every step felt as if she were being stabbed with hot pokers all down her side, but her head seemed to clear a little. Casper supported her as she walked slowly, limping from the gash in her hip, but nothing could keep her from Zollin. The healer pulled a wooden stool over for Brianna to sit on and she leaned against Zollin’s magical barrier. It was like he was surrounded by an invisible barrel, but she draped her weight against it and leaned as close as she could get to his face.

  “Zollin? Can you hear me? You have to fight this. Don’t give up. Come back to me. Please, come back to me. I can’t lose you now. We all need you so much. And I love you.”

  Casper draped a blanket around Brianna’s shoulders. The warmth of the fire felt good to her, and seeing Zollin, even in the state he was in, made her feel better too. She only hoped he could hear her and that somehow he might be able to come back from the awful state he was in. For hours she sat there, whispering encouragement to the wizard who didn’t move or make any sign that he heard her. Brianna had to sit up and stare at his chest to make sure he was still alive. Fear felt like an icy hand gripping her heart. She refused to believe he would die, but she knew that no one could help Zollin as long as he was in the magical cocoon. He had to help himself or all was lost.

  Chapter 31

  The journey north was difficult. The storm hit just as Quag had predicted. A howling wind from the north blew down heavy snow and Lorik could only guess about the conditions at sea. What he knew for certain was that running through a blizzard was exhausting. Spector was with him, but the wraith hadn’t shown himself or spoken since they had left Blue Harbor. Lorik could feel his friend’s animosity, but the wraith’s anger was easing as they traveled. It seemed the closer they got to the enemy the more content Spector became.

  The storm hit just before nightfall on the first day of travel, and although Lorik continued into the night, by morning the snow was ankle deep and the big warrior was actually tired. Normally the winter conditions didn’t bother him. The cold seemed no different than a hot summer, both were irritating but not debilitating. But after running all night, Lorik took refuge in an old stable that was barely standing. One wall was completely torn down, but the other three created a perfect wind break. There was even some old straw in the corner and enough dry wood for a fire.

  Lorik ate, then checked his weapons. The cold, wet conditions were not ideal for steel, but a little work kept them clean and rust free. Finally, with nothing left to do but wait out the storm, he slept for a few hours. When he woke up the weather had finally transitioned from a raging storm to a steady snow shower. He pushed on, his black armor wet from the falling snow, but not icy. The snow was above his ankles, forcing him into a maddeningly slow jog, but at least he was able to keep moving.

  The wind picked back up as night fell, and once again Lorik took shelter. The next day the sky started to clear and Lorik felt his spirits rise. He liked the darkness. It felt comforting to him since his own transition deep in the bowels of the castle at Ort City. When he had given into the dark magic that had called to him there, he had been filled with strength, his body growing more powerful than ever before, and the darkness had become a comfort to him. Yet the sun breaking forth in the sky after the snow storm was a welcome sight.

  He picked up his pace, running where he could, trudging through the thick snow in places where the drifts were higher. He saw no sign of life across what had once been a thriving kingdom. Ortis was his home, but it had not accepted him. Even when he had done all he could to save Ortis, first from a Norsik raid so large it could rightly be called an invasion. And then from the outcasts who were marching north under the spell of the witch that had created them. Ortis was no longer a safe place. The farms and homesteads were either abandoned or the people sheltering in them hid from sight most of the day. There were still people across the vast kingdom, some on farms, some in small villages, but gone were the days of travel, of people filling the land with productive work. Lorik hoped to change that. Once the border was safe again, the outcasts who chose to could move north, rebuild the cities, and even trade with the humans who were still in the kingdom. He looked forward to that future, especially as he trudged across the barren fields of his homeland.

  He had traveled south in just two days and nights. The trip back north took five, and when he finally arrived at the border to Baskla he moved east. He was tempted to infiltrate Fisstom Harbor. He wanted to know what he was sending his troops into. Yet even the sight of Lorik could tip off whoever was guarding Baskla. Lorik towered over most humans, his muscles were far larger than any normal man, and his presence was unmistakable. If he was seen, it would be easy to report to the authorities, and Lorik wanted any hint that he was in Baskla to be far away from the western coast.

  He traveled only at night once he crossed the border, staying away from settlements and populated areas. The terrain changed almost immediately. The softly rolling hills of Ortis changed into steep ravines covered with short, gnarly trees and thorny bushes. The snow that was melting from the sunshine in Ortis was refreezing in Baskla, making the already rough terrain even more inhospitable. Lorik climbed up and down the rugged hills, slipping and falling in the darkness. It was almost as if the kingdom knew he was there and was trying to keep him away.

  The evil was more potent than before. Lorik wasn’t deterred by the cold weather, but the sense of evil made him almost as miserable. It haunted his dreams, where he saw Vera dying again and again, only in his dreams Kierian was dying with her, and Issalyn stood by, watching, with her entrails wrapped around her throat. When he was awake he was riddled with doubts. He feared he was losing his way and couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be lost in the frozen wilderness until he died of exposure.

  Strangely enough, it was his own magical power that seemed most effected by the evil in Baskla. It was as if something was filtering his strength, creating a barrier between himself and the magical chaos that empowered him. While the evil tormented Lorik, it beckoned to the magic inside him, tempting it to leave him and join the growing power in Baskla.

  Four nights passed before Lorik finally traveled close enough to see Forxam. It was a fortified city, high on one of the rugged hills. Just the sight of the capital gave Lorik a sense of relief, and for the first time since leaving Blue Harbor, Spector spoke to him.

  “At last,” the wraith hissed.

  “We can be there by sunrise if we push it,” Lorik said.

  “I can be there sooner, set me free to do what must be done.”

  “Not yet,” Lorik said. “I want to know what is happening with the invasion. Go and spy for me. I’ll meet you at twilight at the southeast corner of the hill the city rests on.”

  There was a hiss and what felt like a light breeze as the wraith raced ahead. Lorik felt as if he were in the middle of a difficult and unwelcome chore. He had to remind himself that once the threat of evil in Baskla was dealt with, he would be free to commit himself completely to building his own kingdom. With that thought in mind, he scrambled down through the snowy brush on the ravine in front of him and continued his trek toward Forxam.

  ***

  The attack at Fisstom had been successful. The outcasts had sailed into the harbor after a difficult week at sea. The storm had made the trip north incredibly difficult, and while most of the soldiers and many of the crew had been sick from the rolling waves, no damage had been done to the vessels and they had managed to reach the border just in time.

  They weren’t able to attack at dawn, instead they sailed into Fisstom Harbor just before mid-day. The outcasts huddled low in their boats, successfully avoiding detection by the people in the city, who expected them to simply be sailors from merchant ships. When they reached the pier the outcasts threw caution to the wind and attacked the city, running through the streets, striking down anyone who resisted them, but there were very few who did. Most of the peopl
e fled, or hid in their homes.

  It took nearly an hour to get all of the outcasts onshore. They set fire to the city, after taking gold, weapons, food, and anything of value they could find. Fisstom was a large harbor, and once the city was sacked, the outcasts stole several more long boats, which they proceeded to tie to the larger ships in hopes of being able to move soldiers to shore in less time.

  After Fisstom they sailed up the coast, which curved around from north and south, and ran east along the long northern edge of the Great Sea. They attacked another smaller town the next day with no resistance and Gunthur decided it was time to take a contingent of his army inland to see what damage they could do.

  On the third day of attacks they sacked another village on the shore, then followed the road that led north into the hills of Baskla. Quag was in charge of the ships, which still had half of the two hundred soldiers on board. Gunthur took the other hundred warriors, leading them north for nearly four hours until they finally came to a large farm that was nestled in a very wide valley between two hills. A stream ran through the valley, although it was frozen over, and the fields were covered with snow. The farm house was large and an even larger barn was built behind the homestead.

  “We’ll take refuge there,” Gunthur told his men. “We can send scouts further north to see if there’s anything in this godforsaken kingdom worth attacking.”

  The family living and working on the farm surrendered without a fight and were confined to a stall in the barn. Scouts were sent out, while the rest of the army settled either into the farm house or took shelter in the barn. Gunthur set a watch, so he knew they were being attacked when the outcasts around the farm house shouted for help. Still, even though Gunthur had been a soldier in his previous life, and had experienced the rigors of war, he wasn’t prepared for what met his eyes as he came out of the farm house.

  Gargoyles poured over the northern hillside. They were short, fat creatures, with thickly muscled shoulders and arms. Their legs were long and thin, folding up on either side of their rotund bodies, and short leathery wings sprouted from their backs. They flew in low, just over the snow-covered trees, and swarmed above the farmhouse.

  “To arms!” Gunthur shouted.

  To their credit the outcasts responded with discipline in the face of the horrid creatures attacking them. They used the buildings for shelter and fought savagely when the gargoyles came within reach. But the wretched creatures didn’t attack like any foe Gunthur had fought before. They dropped on the house and barn after reverting to stone, their heavy bodies crashing through the buildings and injuring anyone unlucky enough to be too close to the creatures. Once inside they came back to life and attacked with razor sharp talons and huge fangs. They were like animals in close quarters. Not invincible by any means, but ferocious and savage fighters.

  Three fell through the roof of the farm house. They were run through with swords, spears, and daggers almost as soon as they reverted to flesh, but the structure was damaged beyond repair and more of the creatures landed on the roof, to crawl inside.

  “Out of the house, everyone!” Gunthur ordered. “We have to get out!”

  Those that were able ran out of the building, but several were caught by the gargoyles. The outcasts were taller and stronger than humans, but they couldn’t fend off the gargoyles who ripped and tore the outcasts like wild dogs.

  Once Gunthur was out in the open they were forced to fight the gargoyles in the air. The barn collapsed, killing or trapping nearly two dozen of his soldiers. Most of the outcasts had heavy weapons, long swords, battle axes, even large war hammers. Very few had spears or pikes, so the gargoyles were able to swoop down and wound or kill the outcasts before being driven off.

  “Retreat!” Gunthur shouted, pointing back down the path that led over the southern hill toward the sea. “Get back to the ships!”

  A gargoyle dove for him, but Gunthur saw it coming. He ducked his head and thrust his sword upward, impaling the gargoyle. It was a flawed tactic, since the creatures reverted to stone once they were killed, and the creature attacking Gunthur toppled down onto him, breaking his right leg before he could scramble out of the way.

  “Go!” he screamed to his men. “Get back to the ships!”

  He tried to stand, but the pain was excruciating. He could see blood on his trousers just below his right knee. There was no way he could walk back to the shore, much less retreat with the creatures attacking them as they went.

  “We’ll carry you,” said one of his junior officers, who had knelt by the commander.

  “No, there isn’t time. Get back to the ships. Continue the mission. But don’t lead the men inland. Just attack the settlements along the shore.”

  “Are you certain,” the outcast said, his overly large eyes were filling with tears and he looked terrified.

  “You can do this. Go!”

  The outcast ran, and Gunthur fell onto his back, his leg sending waves of pain up his entire right side. Above him the gargoyles flew in circular patterns, diving down to attack the retreating soldiers in an almost lackadaisical fashion.

  Looking down at his leg Gunthur saw blood in the snow. It wasn’t a mortal wound in most circumstances, but Gunthur knew he was vulnerable. The gargoyles knew it too, and they followed the nearly fifty soldiers back along the track, leaving only a few of their kind behind to mop up any survivors. The outcasts could move quickly, running almost as fast as Lorik. And the path through the wilderness was barely wide enough for a wagon to pass between the trees, which should give the outcasts some cover, Gunthur thought. Although if the gargoyles raced ahead they could also block the only escape route his soldiers had.

  A heavy thump made Gunthur turn his head to see a nasty-looking creature that had landed nearby. There was blood on its fat stomach, which dripped down into the snow as it leaned forward, looking down at him with a terrifying grimace. Gunthur still had his sword in hand, and he swung it instinctively, screaming out in pain, fear, and anger. The blade severed several of the gargoyles talon-like fingers when it raised a hand in a futile effort to ward off the blow. Then it sank into the flesh between the round shoulder and the fat neck. Blood shot up into the bright sky, then rained around Gunthur, who covered his face.

  When he opened his eyes again the gargoyle had reverted to stone and could no longer hurt him, but his sword was stuck fast in the creature with no way to retrieve it. Gunthur let it go and lay back, panting. The snow beneath him was melting from his body heat, the resulting moisture wicking through his clothing and making him shiver. He had on a leather vest, but most of his armor was still in the farm house where he’d taken it off after their march through the countryside.

  The house was leaning to one side, and the sky was clearing as more gargoyles followed the outcast soldiers south. Gunthur knew he needed to get up and find a more secure location if he wanted to survive, but his leg was hurting so much that he felt like he was going to be sick. He was just about to start dragging himself back toward the farm house in hopes of finding shelter when he heard a strange growl.

  The creature that crawled out from around the stone gargoyle was wounded, with a gash in its side and a missing hand. It hobbled through the snow, its skinny legs barely able to lift its girth. Gunthur drew his dagger and waited for the creature to attack. But it didn’t rush forward, instead it stayed out of reach, waiting and watching him.

  An hour passed, and Gunthur could feel himself shaking from the cold. He was growing weaker by the moment, his leg a fiery mass of pain. Yet the creature didn’t attack him, it just sat growling and waiting. Finally, Gunthur started trying to crawl. He screamed in pain as he pushed against the ground in an effort to roll onto his stomach. It took all of his strength and he was seeing black spots in his vision when he finally accomplished the roll. The gargoyle never moved.

  Gunthur knew his plan hadn’t changed. He couldn’t survive laying in the snow. The sun was already setting. The temperatures would fall and he needed to get dry an
d warm if he hoped to see morning. He wondered if the gargoyle was thinking the exact same thing. Perhaps, although wounded and hideous, it only wanted to find a way to survive. Perhaps it had come to him because he was the only other living creature in the valley.

  “We have to get to the farm house,” he said in a husky voice.

  The gargoyle growled, almost whining like an injured dog. Gunthur nodded, and started pulling himself with his arms through the snow. Each inch forward was torture, but he slowly made the turn and was facing the farm house. Looking over his shoulder the gargoyle hadn’t moved, but it was still watching him. Slime dripped from the creature’s mouth which was filled with oversized teeth.

  “We can do this,” Gunthur said, not sure if he was talking to himself or the creature behind him. “Come on, we can make it.”

  He started dragging himself toward the farm house, kicking with his good leg and clenching his teeth against the pain in his other leg. He didn’t see the gargoyle move behind him when it lumbered forward. If he had he might have taken heart, thinking it was going with him, like a wounded pet wanting to stay close to its master. But he would have been mistaken, and when the gargoyle sank its teeth into his calf on his good leg the betrayal would have been even worse than the pain.

  Gunthur screamed, twisting to get away, but the gargoyle was too strong and it had hold of him now. It was loath to let go, its teeth buried deep into Gunthur’s large muscle just below the knee. Despite the overwhelming pain, Gunthur twisted around and stabbed his dagger into the creature’s head. Instantly the gargoyle reverted to stone, the cold, granite fangs still clamped down onto Gunthur’s leg. He was trapped, unable to get away, and his mind drifted toward darkness. For one brilliant moment the world was lit in a soft, sunset glow, the trees looking stately along the hills, and each flake of snow standing out in perfectly formed crystals. Then it all faded away and Gunthur was at last free of his pain.