She had no trouble keeping pace with her four-legged brethren; she had learned to run with them shortly after she had learned to crawl. Like all the Pack Masters, she could go days without stopping or slowing. To run with the pack was freedom; it was life.
Dusk was approaching; their third straight day away from the rest of the clan. Her pack had ranged many leagues, hunting for meat and patrolling the far-reaching borders of Ice Fang territory. As it always did a day or two after leaving the other humans of her clan behind, her mind had slipped into a semiferal state. She was one with her dogs, her identity subsumed yet also augmented by her inclusion in the pack.
The wind shifted, bringing new scents and smells to her eager nostrils. There was something foreign coming from the west, something unclean. The rest of the pack smelled it, too—she felt their unease, their fear. She felt the hair on her neck stand up and some of the younger dogs growled low as they ran, hackles raised. But their fear was held in check by the strength of the pack and overridden by the deeply ingrained instinct to protect the clan and defend their territory.
She gave two low whistles, and as one the pack changed direction, moving toward the unfamiliar and unsettling scent. After several more miles they topped a small ridge, and the entire pack pulled up short.
Below them stretched an army of humans: thousands of interlopers marching slowly but steadily eastward. The shock snapped the Pack Master from her blissful semiprimal state, her rational, human identity rising to the surface.
She knew right away this was not some rival clan—none of the Eastern tribes could field an army of this size.
Not human, she thought, recognizing the same slightly alien scent of the strange young man traveling with the Outlanders they’d ransomed to the Stone Spirits. Danaan.
The odor rising from the distant horde wasn’t the smell she’d noticed earlier; it wasn’t the one that made her want to cower in fear or run away. That smell had faded, swept away by another shift in the cold winds.
She studied their slow but relentless progress for a few minutes, noting their general direction and numbers. The Danaan ranks were spread thin: rather than a single mass, they traveled in small groups of roughly a dozen individuals clustered closely together. These smaller units moved with varying speed, their relative positions constantly changing as some pressed forward and others fell back. The seemingly random ebb and flow reminded her of the subtle, shifting patterns of a pack on the run—a formless, freeform mass that somehow held together as a whole.
It didn’t take her long to realize that the army’s path would inevitably bring them to the clan’s most recent campsite. She had no illusions about what would happen if the Ice Fangs crossed paths with the invaders.
And then she was spotted. The main force of the army was still on the plain below the ridge, but several scout patrols had already made their way to the top. One of them had emerged over the crest of a small hill, unnoticed while she had been studying the army below. Seeing the dogs, they let loose with a series of horn blasts.
From a distance, another series of calls signaled back. Based on where the sounds were coming from, the Pack Master realized some of the advance patrols had already forged many miles ahead—far enough that they could circle around and cut off the pack’s retreat.
She gave three quick whistles: sharp, short, and high-pitched. Danger! Home! In response, the pack whirled around and set off in the opposite direction at a full sprint. The Danaan behind her set off in pursuit, but she knew they could outrun them. The real danger lay in front.
More horns rang out. The response came from multiple directions up ahead, and the Pack Master realized the net was closing in on them. Within seconds the enemy began to materialize in the distance: gray, shadowy shapes in the rapidly fading twilight.
Another whistle sent her pack scattering, spreading out in all directions in the hope that one or two might escape to warn the clan. The enemy responded with more horn blasts, and the patrols ahead fanned out to block their escape.
The Danaan were light on their feet, but their speed couldn’t match the Pack Master or her dogs. For an instant she thought they all might make it. But she hadn’t counted on the archers.
The air was split with the sharp twang of bowstrings, and a second later a rain of arrows engulfed them. Dogs yelped and squealed as the deadly projectiles pierced their fur and flesh. The first volley dropped nearly half the pack though the Pack Master herself wasn’t hit. The second volley changed that.
She didn’t hear the second twang; her ears filled only with the cries of her dying pack. But she felt the impact as the first arrow thudded into her shoulder, knocking her off stride and spinning her half-around. The second caught her thigh, taking her down. Another buried itself in her stomach, and she grunted in pain and shock.
Unable to rise, she looked up from the ground to see that all but two of her dogs lay dead or dying around her.
It only takes one to warn the clan, she thought, clinging to a last, desperate hope.
She saw the survivors break through the enemy ranks, running hard. Another volley of arrows took one down as he fled, impaling him through the back of the neck. But by some miracle the last—a young bitch, strong and fierce—wasn’t hit. The archers fired again, but by this time she was out of range, and the arrows fell harmlessly to the earth well short of her.
Go! the Pack Master silently screamed, the world beginning to fade and tilt as her life oozed out from her wounds. Go!
Suddenly another shape appeared from over a nearby hill, far too large to be Danaan or human. It was nearly as wide as it was tall; standing upright on two legs but hunched forward to help brace its bulk with the knuckles of its forelimbs.
She didn’t know what the creature was, but she recognized the stench coming off the mountain of dark, putrid flesh—this was the scent that had so unnerved the pack. The monster turned its massive head to the side, yellow eyes glowing in the fading light as it fixed them on the fleeing dog. It gathered itself for an instant, muscles coiling then exploding into a fury of action as it gave chase with unnatural, unfathomable speed.
The creature was little more than a blur as it raced across the plain, eating up the distance between it and its quarry in mere seconds. As its charge overtook the fleeing dog, the beast swung its meaty fist down like a hammer, pulverizing the canine’s spine. The dog shrieked—a sound something between a human scream and a howl that ripped at the Pack Master’s rapidly faltering heart.
The last thing she saw before she slipped away forever into darkness was the beast lifting the squirming, still-struggling dog up to its maw and beginning to feed.
Chapter 19
KEEGAN DIDN’T SO much wake up as grudgingly claw his way back to consciousness. He couldn’t remember how many flagons of ale he’d downed during Norr’s victory celebration, but clearly it had been more than his body could handle.
His head was pulsing, every heartbeat sending blood roaring and rushing through his temples. His eyes were heavy and itchy, as if someone had poured sand in them while he slept. His mouth was so dry and scratchy he actually wondered if he’d been chewing on the rough woven blanket that had kept him warm through the night.
Despite all his physical discomfort, however, he hadn’t been able to drink enough to keep from dreaming about Scythe. But in his groggy, hungover state he wasn’t sure if what he recalled was a vision or just an ordinary dream.
We were together, he remembered. Naked. Close.
In the dream, she’d leaned in close to kiss him … just as she’d kissed him after Norr won his duel.
She was just grateful for what you did. It didn’t mean anything.
But she hadn’t kissed Vaaler.
He’d been thinking about that kiss all night. Downing cup after cup of ale and celebrating Norr’s triumph with his supporters, he kept glancing over in Scythe’s direction. If she noticed, she hadn’t acknowledged him—all her attention and focus had been on the new clan chief.
“Things can change,” Keegan mumbled out loud. “The future isn’t written in stone.”
Vaaler knew Keegan well enough to see something was bothering him. Keegan was even more quiet and pensive than usual. The alcohol still cleansing itself from his system was probably partly to blame; the young wizard had downed far more drinks than Vaaler. But the Danaan felt there was something more. Keegan hadn’t spoken a word since crawling out of his tent for breakfast; he just chewed quietly on the jerky the Stone Spirits had for seemingly every meal.
Winter is a hard time in the East, Vaaler realized.
The growing season was over; whatever fruits or vegetables could survive the inhospitable climate would have been harvested long ago. Fresh game would be scarce, and anyone out hunting would be at risk of getting caught in one of the fast-building storms that seemed to sweep through every few days. Until the spring thaw, the hard, leathery meat was probably the only source of reliable food for the clan.
“Something on your mind?” the Danaan asked, hoping to draw his friend out of his shell.
“Just thinking,” he mumbled in response.
I’ll bet.
Vaaler had been doing a lot of thinking himself. Norr had won his duel but the former prince was more anxious than ever. Despite downing several flagons of thick ale with Norr’s supporters while celebrating the new chief’s victory, he’d barely slept.
Keegan’s magic was strong enough to change the course of that duel. But what other consequences will there be?
Vaaler had taken every precaution he could to make sure the backlash of the spell was contained. But the ritual he’d devised had been based on theory rather than actual experience, and Chaos was unpredictable.
Especially when Keegan’s involved.
Before the duel, Vaaler hadn’t even been sure their plan would actually work. Despite all he knew about Keegan’s potential as a wizard and Jerrod’s unwavering faith that the young man was destined to be the savior, he half expected to see Norr lose. Everything he knew and understood about magic told him the spell would fail. Watching the fight unfold, however, it was clear Keegan had actually succeeded in unleashing the curse.
Nobody else could have done that under these circumstances. Not even Rexol.
The spell hadn’t been fueled by the latent energies of the Danaan forest; its power had come from some reservoir of Chaos deep inside Keegan himself. Even more amazing, he hadn’t needed the mind-altering effects of witchroot to unlock it. The implications were staggering.
He can summon Chaos anytime he chooses. But can he control it?
From his studies under Rexol, Vaaler knew the arcane symbols and complicated chants recited during any ritual were mostly mnemonic devices. They were tools to focus and direct a wizard’s mind, catalysts to trigger the thought patterns that allowed a mage to shape the Chaos to a specific purpose. The trappings of the mage’s art made it easier to cast a spell, but theoretically, if a wizard was strong enough, he could accomplish the same thing through sheer force of will.
Keegan had proved beyond all doubt that the theory was correct. He had unleashed Chaos in a way nobody had thought possible since the Cataclysm.
He’s like the great mages who practiced Old Magic.
It was an exhilarating, yet also sobering, thought. The Cataclysm was caused by Old Magic, or so the Danaan legends claimed. Rexol had spent his life searching for that kind of power, only to have it destroy him. Yet if Keegan was to fulfill Jerrod’s prophecy, he would need to embrace his potential, despite the risks. Vaaler couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to bear that kind of burden.
He was also worried about Jerrod. The monk had been watching them very closely during the duel; Vaaler had felt his unseeing eyes on them the entire time. Jerrod was closely attuned to the ways of Chaos; maybe he had sensed something unusual during the fight.
If he did, wouldn’t he challenge us about it?
Vaaler didn’t know him well, but if Jerrod wasn’t confronting them about what they’d done, there had to be a reason. With the monk’s pupil-less eyes and unnatural sense, it was hard to know exactly what he was watching. But to Vaaler it had seemed like Jerrod was studying him and Keegan closely all night.
He has to suspect something. Is that what’s bothering Keegan? Is he worried how Jerrod will react when he finds out?
“You can talk to me about anything,” Vaaler assured his friend. “You know that, right?”
Keegan sighed, then took a deep breath.
“I can’t stop thinking about Scythe,” he admitted.
I should have guessed.
Vaaler was well aware of how his friend felt about the young woman; Keegan wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings. It was understandable: she was an attractive young woman full of energy and spirit. But a simple crush was one thing; if Keegan was starting to obsess over her, it could lead to trouble.
“She’s with Norr,” Vaaler said, trying to keep from sounding judgmental. “You know that.”
“I know. But when she kissed me after the duel it felt like … it’s hard to explain.”
“It’s hard to explain because there’s nothing there. So quit acting like a spoiled child.”
“You said I could talk to you about anything,” Keegan shot back, offended. “Now you’re mocking me?”
“I’m not mocking you,” Vaaler protested. “I’m just telling you not to get all knotted up because of one little kiss. She was just excited for Norr. She got caught up in the moment.”
“I think there was more to it,” Keegan insisted. “There’s a connection between us.”
“You mean you want there to be a connection,” Vaaler corrected. “I’ve seen her and Norr together; they mean everything to each other. You don’t want to get between that.”
And if you keep trying, he silently added, Norr might decide to pummel you into oblivion.
“Maybe I should just ask her how she feels,” Keegan muttered, more to himself than his friend. That didn’t stop Vaaler from answering.
“Don’t bring this up with Scythe,” he warned. “You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. You’ve got more important things you need to worry about, anyway.”
“Like what?”
“Like Jerrod. Didn’t you see him watching us last night? I think he knows what we did.”
“Now you’re the one reading too much into nothing,” Keegan answered. “Jerrod’s always watching me. He worries too much.”
“Maybe he’s right to worry.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t seem to be taking what happened seriously. Your spell worked! You put a hex on Shalana, and it made her lose!”
“I told you it would work,” Keegan reminded him. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Vaaler gritted his teeth in frustration. Keegan was like a brother to him, but sometimes he could be so dense it was painful.
“You don’t even realize what you did, do you?” Vaaler sighed, shaking his head. “You summoned Chaos without using witchroot.”
“I’ve done it before,” Keegan replied defensively. “I told you that.”
“This wasn’t some wild outburst of raw emotion! This was a cold, calculated act. Do you even understand the implications of what you’ve done?”
“Do you?” Keegan shot back. “This isn’t the first time I have summoned Chaos. And it won’t be the last.”
“You take your power for granted,” Vaaler snarled. “You don’t appreciate how incredible and amazing your ability is. If I had the gift—”
“You don’t!” Keegan snapped, cutting him off. “And you never will. So stop trying to tell me how to feel about it!”
Vaaler was stunned into silence. Keegan opened his mouth as if he was about to say something else, then closed it and turned his gaze down
to the ground.
Disgusted with his friend, the former prince stood up and stomped away, leaving Keegan alone by the fire, gnawing away at his breakfast jerky.
He stormed through the camp, not heading in any particular direction, driven by anger and humiliation. By the time he reached the Long Hall near the far edge of the camp, the emotions clouding his mind had begun to clear. As they did, he couldn’t help but wonder at how things had gotten so quickly out of hand. They’d had arguments before, but it wasn’t like Keegan to lash out at him.
And it’s not like me to overreact, he realized.
He’d spent his whole life dealing with his lack of magical ability; he’d learned to shrug it off. But for some reason the young mage’s words had cut particularly deep.
We’ve been under a lot of stress. That’s all.
But on some level, Vaaler knew there was more to it. Over the past few weeks they’d been through far worse situations than the one they were in now. Tempers had flared, but he and Keegan had never gone at each other before.
So why now?
Before he could analyze it further, the door to the Long Hall swung open, and Scythe came barreling out. She was walking fast: fists clenched, jaw set, and her face twisted into a mask of rage. Vaaler’s first instinct was to step aside and let her pass; he’d seen the full force of her fury enough times to not want to get in her way. But at the last instant he changed his mind.
Why should I tiptoe around her? She’s not the only one who has the right to get mad!
Besides, the irrational, petulant side of his mind chimed in, Keegan and I wouldn’t have started arguing if she hadn’t given him that stupid kiss!
“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” he asked, confronting her head on.
“Gotta pack,” she snapped, pulling up short just in front of him.
“Pack? Are we leaving?”
“Apparently. A bunch of the clans are having some kind of big meeting.”
The Scorched Earth Page 20
