The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  What were you three doing these past nights? the monk wondered.

  Another lumbering charge from Norr pulled Jerrod’s interest back to the fight. Shalana danced to the side again, but this time Norr was ready for it. Even before she started moving, he was changing direction to cut off her path.

  Shalana seemed taken aback by the move, and she barely managed to get the shaft of her staff up in time to block Norr’s strike. The big man kept driving forward, throwing his weight into his smaller opponent. Shalana was knocked backward, falling to the ground.

  Norr’s supporters roared approval; Shalana’s groaned in despair.

  Yet again, Norr’s handicap kept him from fully exploiting his advantage. Before he had a chance to fall on her and use his massive bulk to pin her to the ground, she’d rolled out of the way and sprung back to her feet. Norr pressed gamely forward, trying to overwhelm her by raining down overhand blows in quick succession. Shalana was forced into a step-by-step retreat, driving the crowd into a frenzy.

  Shalana blocked Norr’s attack with her own staff, holding it crosswise with both hands above her head. Arms braced and her muscles straining, she grunted in pain as each impact sent shock waves shivering down her arms.

  The relentless assault drove her down to one knee. When the next blow came, instead of trying to block it she ducked and rolled forward, sending her lean but solid frame into Norr’s legs. At his full strength, she lacked enough mass to have any hope of knocking him off his feet. With the big man hobbled, however, the maneuver sent him toppling over so that they both ended up in a heap on the ground.

  The crowd screamed and shouted, giving voice simultaneously to their anticipation, apprehension, and confusion as the two rolled around on the earth.

  Norr released his grip on the staff with one hand, trying to grab hold of his smaller, quicker foe. But Shalana managed to wriggle free of his grasp and roll clear of the carnage. She sprang back to her feet and swung her staff like a club, bringing the shaft slamming down across Norr’s back over and over as he tried to rise.

  Amazingly, Norr shrugged off the vicious assault and somehow regained his feet, clutching his own weapon in one hand. But he was dazed and stunned, and when he retaliated with a wild, clumsy swing Shalana easily stepped aside and darted in at Norr’s exposed flank.

  Once again the crowd exploded, and once again Jerrod could foresee the inevitable end of the battle. The momentum of Norr’s awkward attack had left him defenseless. Shalana had seized on the opening to deliver a single precise strike to the back of Norr’s skull that would send the big man crashing down, unconscious and defeated.

  For the second time, however, Shalana missed. This time she didn’t slip, but as the fatal blow was coming in Norr’s bad knee buckled slightly—just enough to send him tumbling forward. He fell awkwardly, bracing himself with one hand on the ground as Shalana’s blow came swooping in at an upward angle from the side. But she had aimed at where Norr’s head would have been if he hadn’t tripped. Instead of connecting with his temple, her staff whistled through the air a fraction of an inch above its target, drawing groans of disbelief from the crowd.

  Expecting to feel the resistance of wood meeting skull, Shalana’s follow-through sent her reeling and her advantage was lost. This time, however, when Norr recovered and got back to his feet it was clear he was favoring his bad leg far more than before. His weight was almost completely over his good knee, and he had jammed the butt of his staff into the cold earth to help him stay standing.

  Shalana regained her balance and slowly turned to face Norr.

  “You can’t fight on one leg,” she called out to Norr, trying to reason with him. “Yield, and we can end this now.”

  Norr didn’t reply, but shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “I have sworn to keep your friends safe,” she added. “I offer them the protection of the clan.”

  “You know that’s not enough,” Norr grumbled. “Not with your other terms.”

  With an almost regretful slump of her shoulders, Shalana moved in to finish him off. Faced with a basically immobile opponent, she didn’t bother with tactics or strategy. Instead, she stepped forward and delivered a series of hard two-handed chops, knowing Norr wouldn’t be able to fight back. There was little the big man could do but throw his own staff up like a shield, bracing to meet the fury of her attack.

  The crowd was screaming and shouting now, their voices so loud they drowned out the sounds of the battle. The first blow sent Norr reeling backward, hopping on one foot as he frantically tried to stay upright. The second and third sent him tumbling to the ground, where he landed heavily on his back, his weapon falling from his hands.

  Shalana charged in to finish him off, gripping her staff by one end with both hands and raising it high above her head before bringing it crashing down like a hammer on an anvil. Still on his back, Norr’s seized his fallen weapon. With one hand, he whipped the heavy wooden staff up and around in a desperate attempt to intercept her blow—an impossible move for anyone other than the enormous giant of a man.

  The sound of the two staves meeting echoed like thunder, the sharp crack rising up above the noise of the rabid crowd as the shaft of Shalana’s weapon sundered. It snapped clean off just above her hands, some unseen warp or defect in the wood giving way under the tremendous force of Norr’s blow.

  For an instant, Shalana stared dumbfounded at the few inches of useless wood still clutched in her grip, her mind unable to process the one-in-a-million fluke that had just disarmed her.

  The hesitation was all Norr needed. Still gripping his own staff in one hand, he swung it again, slamming it hard into her side as she stood over him. The impact lifted her into the air; a second later she came crashing to the ground beside him where she lay gasping for breath.

  Before she could recover, Norr rolled onto his side and grabbed Shalana’s braid with his free hand. Using it like a rope he hauled her in, still coughing and choking as she feebly tried to pull herself away. A second later he had her facedown on the ground, his good knee in the middle of her back and his full four hundred pounds pinning her to the earth.

  “Yield!” he shouted.

  Shalana struggled vainly for a few more seconds, reaching back to ineffectually clutch and claw at the man on top of her before realizing the impossibility of her situation. Then her body went limp as hope vanished and defeat washed over her.

  “I yield,” she gasped, her lungs fighting for air under Norr’s bulk. “I yield.”

  Bedlam erupted as the crowd surged forward to congratulate the winner. Through the mass of rushing bodies, Jerrod saw Scythe grab Keegan by the shoulders. Spinning the young man to face her, she gave him a hard kiss on the lips.

  It lasted only a second, an unplanned act of raw emotion pouring out in a single spontaneous gesture before she rushed off to Norr’s side.

  Jerrod kept his attention on the young mage. Bewildered and bemused, Keegan stood frozen in place as the crowd shoved past him, the faint hint of a smile on his lips.

  Interesting, the monk thought to himself, his mind slowly putting all the little bits and pieces together. Very interesting.

  Chapter 17

  NORR WAS SNORING so loudly, Scythe was worried their tent might actually collapse around them, but at least he was finally asleep.

  The twelve hours since Norr’s duel with Shalana had been a chaotic, hectic blur of frenzied activity. During the fight Scythe hadn’t screamed and cheered with the rest of the crowd, too nervous to give voice to her emotions. Her stomach knotted with fear and worry, all she could do was watch and silently pray that Keegan’s curse would work while trying not to throw up.

  She remembered grabbing Keegan by the shoulders after Norr won and planting a fierce kiss on his lips before rushing off to her lover’s side, an impulsive, instinctive act of gratitude for what the young man had done.

  I just hope he saw it that way. Poor kid’s probably more confused than ever.

  E
verything after that became a jumbled collage of images and emotion. The look of utter defeat and despair on the vanquished Shalana’s face. The unbridled joy of Norr’s supporters as they somehow picked him up and carried him to the Long Hall. The strained smile on her lover’s face during their celebrations, his victory tempered by the emotional pain of what he’d done to Shalana and the physical pain of his injuries.

  In addition to further aggravating his knee, he’d suffered dozens of deep, ugly bruises that would take weeks to fade. Scythe had done her best to tend to him, wrapping and splinting his leg to protect the joint from further harm, but there were precious few medicinal plants and herbs growing in the Frozen East. The only available method of dulling his pain was to pour flagon after flagon of mead down the new clan chief’s throat; something his supporters had been all too eager to do.

  A constant stream of men and women had come to the Long Hall to see Norr all day long. Scythe had stayed by his side, hovering anxiously and trying to make Norr comfortable. Vaaler and Keegan—and even Jerrod—had come by to congratulate Norr. But it didn’t take long for the urgent crush of people around the big man to force them into retreat. The last she’d seen, the monk had wandered off outside and the two younger men were being coerced into raising mugs of ale in a salute to Norr’s victory.

  Scythe, however, refused to let the crowds drag her away from her lover’s side. She still didn’t know enough of the local language to follow the conversations of everyone who approached him, but based on tone and facial expressions, she assumed most of the visitors were simply congratulating him on his victory. The majority seemed sincere, but she suspected a few of simply trying to get into the new chief’s good graces as soon as possible—even among the savages of the Frozen East it was impossible to escape the sycophants and political schemers.

  She’d bristled when Terramon, Shalana’s father, had dared to approach. His cane thumping heavily on the floor, he leaned in close to Norr and offered his hand. Norr had accepted it warily, eyeing the old man with suspicion. They’d exchanged a few whispered words in their native tongue before Norr nodded. Satisfied, Terramon then left, not bothering to stay and celebrate his daughter’s defeat.

  A handful of other visitors—more men and women she recognized as thanes from their first meeting in the Long Hall—had similar short but intense conversations with him during the celebrations. No doubt they were concerned about the direction Norr would lead them now that he was in charge, and Scythe suspected there would be many lengthy and contentious meetings in the Long Hall over the next week as they each tried to push their own agenda.

  That’s probably the last thing Norr wanted. If Shalana had just agreed to help us, he would have been perfectly happy to let her stay chief.

  As far as Scythe was concerned, this was just one more reason to dislike the woman. Her selfishness had forced Norr’s hand and put him—and Scythe—into an uncomfortable position.

  Now that he’s the chief, what does that make me? Am I still an Outlander? And what happens to us down the road? How long will Norr feel obligated to stay and lead his people? How long before he decides to step down and let someone else take over?

  Important questions but ones Scythe didn’t need to ask right away. Instead, she’d remained silent as the well-wishers came and went, letting Norr bask in the adulation of his victory. She’d stayed at his side, slowly nursing a large flagon of warm ale. Not drinking anything would have seemed out of place, but she wasn’t about to abandon her long-standing practice of staying sober while others drank. Alcohol dulled the senses; it left you slow and vulnerable, and she’d seen too many bad things happen to those who let themselves get in that condition.

  Finally, after many hours and many raised and drained cups by those in the Hall—especially Norr—the stream of visitors dried up. With the help of two strapping young warriors, Scythe had brought her lover back to their tent, where he’d collapsed on the bed almost immediately in an inebriated stupor.

  Despite Norr’s thunderous snoring, Scythe was exhausted enough that she wasn’t worried about falling asleep beside him. Before she could turn in, however, she heard someone calling her name from outside the tent.

  “Scythe, we must talk.”

  For a second she thought it was Keegan, and the memories of her ill-advised kiss sprang to her mind. Then she realized the voice was deeper.

  Jerrod?

  Knowing an entire army could traipse through the tent without waking the snoring giant, she lifted the entrance flap and ushered the monk inside.

  “What do you want?” she asked, getting right to the point.

  “The duel today was unusual,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Shalana seemed to have it won until her staff splintered.”

  “Bad luck,” Scythe said with a shrug. “It happens.”

  “It does,” Jerrod conceded. “But sometimes we make our own luck.”

  Scythe narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  How much does he know? Has he talked to Keegan?

  She wasn’t sure how Jerrod would react to what they had done, but she imagined he’d be upset about it. In his mind, the only thing that mattered was Keegan’s supposed destiny as the savior of the world. He’d probably think that using Chaos magic to unleash a curse, even to help a friend, was an unnecessary risk.

  “If you have something to say,” Scythe told him, “just say it.”

  “I think you, Keegan, and Vaaler helped Norr win the duel somehow,” he declared, though his monotone voice betrayed none of what he might actually be feeling. “I want to know what the three of you did.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scythe insisted.

  She’d noticed the monk talking briefly with Keegan in the Long Hall. She didn’t think the young mage would betray her intentionally, but a few drinks might have loosened his tongue. But if Keegan had already told the monk the truth, then there wasn’t any need for her to fill him in. And if Jerrod didn’t know yet, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

  “Vaaler and Keegan won’t tell me what happened, either,” he admitted, and Scythe couldn’t help but think back to her days as a thief on the streets of Callastan.

  Well done, lads. Stick together and keep our mouths shut. Code of the underworld.

  “I was hoping you would be reasonable, but I should have known better,” Jerrod continued in his same emotionless tone. “Maybe Norr will be more forthcoming when I speak with him about this.”

  Bastard. He knows Norr wasn’t involved.

  “He’s sleeping,” Scythe answered coldly. “He had a long day.”

  “He will wake up eventually,” Jerrod replied. “When he does, I’m eager to share my theories about what happened in the duel with him.”

  The monk had her, and he knew it. Norr could be naïve, but he wasn’t stupid. If Jerrod started questioning him about the duel, he’d demand the truth from Scythe. She could lie to him, but his suspicions would be raised. He’d know something wasn’t right; he’d probably even tell Shalana out of some misguided sense of honor and duty.

  Then what? Will they fight again? Or will Norr be disqualified and Shalana declared the winner?

  She didn’t know a lot about the Eastern culture, despite her time with Norr. He’d always seemed reluctant to talk about his past, so she had never pressed him. But she was pretty sure cheating during a duel to determine who would become clan chief would be considered a serious offense.

  The snores coming from her lover reassured her he was still fast asleep; there wasn’t any risk of his waking up midconversation.

  “If I tell you,” she said, “you can’t say anything to Norr.”

  “That was the implication,” Jerrod agreed. His voice and expression never changed, yet somehow he still managed to sound smug.

  “Keegan cast a curse,” she admitted. “Something to give Shalana bad luck during the duel.”

  “How long will this curse last?” Jerrod wanted to know. “Any misfortu
ne that befalls Shalana could affect us, as well. That is how Chaos works—there are always unforeseen consequences. Rexol called it backlash.”

  “I think it was just for the duel,” she said, though she realized now that she wasn’t exactly sure. “Vaaler took steps to make sure the magic didn’t flare up out of control,” she added.

  The monk nodded, and Scythe silently cursed herself for inadvertently selling Vaaler out. Threatening to tell Norr had rattled her into revealing more than she’d intended.

  “This was all my idea,” she explained, hoping to at least redirect Jerrod’s wrath away from the other two. “Vaaler and Keegan both tried to talk me out of it.”

  “But in the end, they listened to you,” Jerrod muttered, almost as if he were talking to himself instead of her.

  “Now that Norr’s clan chief, he can use his influence to get the Stone Spirits to help us,” Scythe added. “It was risky, but it worked out for the best.”

  To her surprise, Jerrod answered, “I agree.”

  “I thought you’d be mad,” Scythe said warily, wondering if this was some kind of trick or trap.

  “We all know Keegan’s destiny, though exactly how he will fulfill it is still unclear,” the monk explained, speaking slowly as if still trying to work the ideas out. “I feared you were a distraction—an impediment; an obstacle. Now I think I may have been wrong.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were born beneath the Blood Moon?”

  “How do you know that?” Scythe demanded. She’d never talked about her birth, even to Norr.

  “So was Vaaler,” Jerrod continued, ignoring her question. “And Keegan.”

  Scythe was momentarily taken aback. The Blood Moon was a rare event; the last one had happened twenty years ago and lasted only a couple weeks. She knew the three of them were roughly the same age, but she hadn’t guessed they’d all been born within days of each other.