“Norr’s loss is a tragedy,” Jerrod told her. “He was a great man, and he knew the value of our cause. He understood that compared to Keegan’s destiny, his own life meant nothing.”
“Nothing?!” Scythe shrieked, a wail of equal parts suffering and rage. “Nothing? He meant everything to me!”
From seemingly out of nowhere, the deadly twin razors materialized in her hands and she threw herself at Jerrod, moving so quickly Keegan didn’t even have a chance to scream out a warning.
Jerrod sensed Scythe’s growing anger, but he was still caught off guard by her sudden assault. He barely managed to avoid having his throat sliced, throwing himself back and turning his head to the side so that the first blade narrowly missed carving open his windpipe. The second blade managed to gouge a deep groove in his shoulder, but though painful, the wound was neither lethal nor incapacitating.
Scythe was still coming at him, her blades flickering and flashing in seemingly random patterns that confused and confounded his Sight. Unable to match her blow for blow, he threw himself into a succession of three back handsprings to get clear of her savage fury.
For an instant he feared she would turn on Keegan, and he cursed himself for leaving the young man exposed.
Something about the way she fights throws me off balance. Forces me into foolish mistakes.
Fortunately, her anger was focused on Jerrod, not Keegan, and she charged forward even as the wizard cried out after her to stop. But instead of resorting to his usual array of acrobatic punches, kicks, and flips, Jerrod reached over his shoulder and wrapped his hand around the hilt of Daemron’s Sword.
With a flick of the wrist he severed the leather ties that bound it to his back and brought the weapon around to meet his foe. And instead of being faced with a disorienting, blurred figure of unpredictable violence and fury, the power of the Talisman allowed him to see Scythe with total clarity.
She seemed to be moving in slow motion: darting, ducking, feinting, and lunging as if the chill in the air had left her muscles half-frozen. Jerrod easily parried her blades, swatting them aside as nonchalantly as he would brush off a speck of dirt from his sleeve.
He turned to let Scythe’s momentum send her careening past him, leaving her back completely exposed. As if it had a mind of its own, the blade thrust forward. But at the last instant Jerrod’s Sight noticed the horrified expression on Keegan’s face, and instead of running Scythe through, he turned the weapon so that he struck her between the shoulders with the flat of the blade.
The blow carried far more force than it should have, given the awkward angle of his thrust. Instead of a light tap, it drove the small woman forward and down, sending her hard face-first into the snow.
She was up in an instant though it seemed like an eternity to Jerrod’s newly heightened senses. Spinning around, she rushed him again. This time Jerrod used Daemron’s Sword to slap the blades from Scythe’s hands with a pair of lightning-quick yet incredibly precise strokes that didn’t even draw blood.
Stripped of her weapons, she kept coming at him like an animal, throwing herself toward his throat. Jerrod admired her tenacity, but he’d anticipated her move and had already reacted. Stepping to the side he once again brought the flat of the blade to bear, catching Scythe in the stomach and knocking the wind from her lungs.
She dropped to her knees with a loud grunt, clutching at her midsection and gasping for air. Then she raised her eyes and fixed Jerrod with a look of pure hatred.
“Do it!” she screamed. “Do it! Run me through! End this!”
Jerrod simply shook his head and stepped back, giving Keegan room to rush in and wrap himself protectively around the young woman.
She thrashed in his grasp until he reluctantly pulled away, then she slowly crumpled into a ball, tears flowing from her eyes and sobs racking her body.
Once again Keegan knelt and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her shoulders and rocking her gently back and forth. He didn’t speak, and eventually she cried herself out, exhaustion overcoming grief as she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
“Thank you for sparing her,” Keegan said, looking up at Jerrod as he clutched the sleeping woman to his chest.
“I’ll try to find somewhere close by where we can rest for the night,” Jerrod said.
“She’ll be better in the morning,” the young wizard assured him. “You’ll see. She’ll be better tomorrow.”
Jerrod didn’t sleep that night. His awareness was intently focused on the two youngsters huddled together under the spare blankets, shivering in the hollow he’d carved out in the leeward side of a snowbank. And he prayed to the True Gods that Keegan was right.
Chapter 36
ANDAR COULD SEE there was something very wrong with the Queen. She spoke too slowly and she moved with jerky, unnatural motions. He’d first noticed it a few days ago and wondered if some strange illness had befallen her. Now, however, he suspected Orath was to blame.
The Minion never left Rianna’s side anymore. Even when she slept, Orath stood watch outside her tent, like some deformed, nightmarish bodyguard.
He’s done something to her, Andar realized, recognizing the signs. Some type of foul magic that binds her to his will.
But there was nothing Andar could do; not unless he could think of some way to get the Queen alone.
And then what? You have no power in this land.
The war council sensed it, too. He could see it in their eyes as they relayed their reports to the Queen. Before she had reacted to the reports of Danaan losses with a stoic concern; though she had never wavered from the course of war, it was obvious she understood the terrible cost.
Now she no longer seemed to care about what they said. Most of the time she seemed distant and distracted, as if she wasn’t even really listening.
“The barbarians have nowhere left to run,” Hexiff was explaining. “We’ve got them pinned up against the mountains.”
“By my best estimates we still have nearly double their numbers,” Pranya added. “They don’t stand a chance, and their leaders know it.”
“Perhaps if we offer them terms of surrender, we can achieve our final victory without further bloodshed,” General Greznor suggested.
“Terms?” the Queen echoed, her eyes blinking rapidly as she seemed to snap to a sudden awareness. “What terms could they possibly meet that we would care about?”
“They have supplies,” Bassi, the quartermaster, chimed in. “Food. Fuel for their fires. Extra blankets. We are out of everything.”
“Even if we defeat them tomorrow—” Lormilar began, but the Queen cut him off.
“We will defeat them tomorrow!” she snapped. “We have an overwhelming force, and we have the ogre on our side!”
“Even so,” the High Sorcerer continued after a respectful pause, “we do not have enough provisions to make it back to Ferlhame. Not without suffering heavy losses on the trip back home.”
“Then we will crush them and take their supplies,” the Queen insisted.
“If defeat is inevitable, they could destroy their own stores as a final blow against us,” Pranya warned.
“The tribes often pay tribute to each other,” Lormilar added. “The barbarians are used to buying off a superior foe. If we make this offer, they will accept.”
“We are here because of the Destroyer of Worlds,” the Queen reminded them, her head cocked to one side as if listening to a voice only she could hear. “They will never surrender him to us.”
“Surely we can at least approach them,” Greznor suggested. “Make the surrender of the Destroyer part of the terms.”
“No!” the Queen snapped. “Parleys and negotiations only delay the inevitable. They will give the Destroyer a chance to escape!”
A heavy air of resignation settled over the war council.
“Then I suggest we attack at dawn,” Greznor sighed. “With luck, the battle will be over by sundown.”
Satisfied, Rianna dismissed them all w
ith a curt nod. Wordlessly, her advisers shuffled out, leaving only Andar, the Queen, and Orath.
Andar scuttled forward to clear away the dishes, pointedly keeping his eyes away from the other two, hoping they would simply forget he was there.
I can’t leave her alone with Orath. I can’t!
Despite his best efforts to remain invisible, it wasn’t long before the Queen addressed him.
“Leave this for tomorrow,” she said. “I’m tired, slave. I need sleep.”
Slave? She has never called you that before.
Andar bowed his head and slipped outside the tent, his mind racing. Instead of going back to the sleeping blanket and bare patch of ground that served as his own quarters, he made his way to where Lormilar, the man who had replaced him, was staying. Glancing around quickly to see if anyone was watching, he ducked inside.
Lormilar was sitting alone in a chair next to a small table in the corner of his tent, his head buried deep in one of the texts Andar used to call his own.
We don’t have enough food to feed the troops, he noted in disgust, but we’re still transporting tables and chairs for each member of the war council’s private chambers?
“Andar?” Lormilar gasped, looking up from his book in surprise. “What are you doing here? The Queen will have your head!”
“The Queen is not in her right mind,” Andar insisted. “You need to convince Greznor and the others to ignore her orders. Send someone to parley with the barbarians.”
“You’re mad,” Lormilar said, shaking his head. “She is the Queen! If we disobey her, we’ll all end up in chains like you. Or worse.”
“You know this isn’t right,” Andar told him. “All of you. She’s fallen under Orath’s control. Surely you can see it!”
Lormilar shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“We have discussed it,” he conceded.
“So why has no action been taken?”
“There is no proof,” Lormilar began. “At least, nothing we could bring forth as evidence to justify our actions.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ogre is … different these past few days. It seems less focused. Distracted. Even in the heat of battle it will sometimes stop and suddenly stand still as stone, ignoring everyone around it.”
“It’s trying to break free from Orath’s will,” Andar blurted out excitedly. “He’s losing control!”
“That is what I believe,” Lormilar agreed. “But as I said, there is no way to prove it.”
Andar didn’t answer at first; he was thinking back to the way the Queen had unexpectedly dismissed him. When she sleeps, Orath doesn’t have to fight to maintain his dominance. He needs to rest and regain his strength for the battle tomorrow.
“Maybe if we attack Orath, the Queen will find the strength to break free,” Andar suggested, sudden hope springing up in him.
“Another idea the war council considered,” Lormilar noted. “But after much discussion we thought better of it.”
“Why?” Andar demanded.
“If Orath loses control of the Queen, he could lose control of the ogre as well.”
Andar nodded in understanding. “The beast could turn on our own troops, slaughtering them as it slaughters the clans.”
“That was not our greatest fear,” Lormilar corrected. “If the Destroyer of Worlds does appear, we will need the ogre to stand against him.”
The former High Sorcerer shook his head, not certain he had heard correctly.
“It sounds like you actually support Orath. Like you think the Queen was right to drive us into war.”
“You saw what happened at Ferlhame,” Lormilar answered, quick and defensive. “We have no way to fight an enemy like that.”
And suddenly Andar realized the truth; the real reason none of the others had tried to break Orath’s control of the Queen. They’re so afraid that they actually agree with what he’s doing!
They might take issue with the specifics of his plan: they still cared about all the Danaan soldiers losing their lives and sought ways to minimize the losses. But though they might complain and grumble about the methods, they would never actually try to oppose Orath because—on some level—they approved of his war.
None of them has ever actually suggested to the Queen that we go back, he realized. Even earlier tonight, when pleading with her to offer the barbarians surrender, they all backed down once they realized the terms wouldn’t deliver the Destroyer of Worlds.
“Orath has you all under his spell,” Andar said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s blinded you to what we’ve become.”
“You’re the one who is blind,” Lormilar spat at him. “You can’t see past your own self-righteousness and martyrdom! Do you think you’re the only one who cares about the Danaan? Hexiff and Pranya have located the clan food stores. During the battle tomorrow, Greznor will lead troops there first thing to secure enough provisions so we can return home after the battle!”
“What about all the soldiers who will lose their lives during the battle?” Andar wanted to know. “What about the innocent men, women, and children our own forces have been ordered to butcher?”
“Not everyone can be saved,” Lormilar said, his voice lowering with regret.
Or shame, Andar realized.
“We are doing whatever we can to help as many as we can,” the new High Sorcerer told him, trying to justify the actions of the war council. “Anything that stops short of treason,” he added pointedly.
“Go back to your tent, Andar,” his former friend said, dismissing him like the lowly servant he was. “If anyone sees you here, it will end badly for both of us.”
Andar did as he was ordered, realizing there was nothing he could do to stop the massive slaughter that was only a few hours away.
Shalana made her way through the massive camp in the Giant’s Maw, now filled with not just refugees but the warriors of all the clans. The Maw was named for the semicircular ring of small but sharp-peaked mountains that marked the eastern edge; some claimed they looked like the teeth of an enormous mouth. To Shalana, however, all they represented was the point at which they could no longer retreat.
They’d arrived a few hours after sunset, and she’d immediately given her warriors leave to seek out their loved ones. The Danaan army was massing only a few miles away, and they all knew it was the last night any of them would see. Better to spend it with family, friends, and clan then trying to devise last-minute strategies of hopeless desperation.
Yet she knew it was important that her warriors see her this night, tall and unafraid, striding among the fires of all the different clans. It wouldn’t bring them victory, but at least it might bring them hope and take away some of the darkness that weighed so heavily over them all.
But now she was finished with her rounds; it was time for her to get back to the Stone Spirits and those who mattered most to her. Arriving at the section of the camp that had been claimed by her own clan, she spotted Vaaler and her father standing beside each other near one of the smoldering peat pits. They stood in silence, neither speaking—her father had still not come to respect Vaaler as many of the thane-chiefs did, and Vaaler still didn’t fully trust her father.
Just another sign of his intelligence and excellent judgment of character.
The two men noticed her approach at the same time, but it was Terramon who spoke first.
“Why haven’t you put any guards around the camp? What if the Tree Folk attack in the middle of the night?”
“Why would they?” Vaaler said with a shrug. “They already have the numbers to annihilate us without resorting to tricks. And their soldiers aren’t trained to fight in the dark—a surprise attack now would only introduce an element of unknown risk.
“If victory is inevitable,” the younger man continued, “why do anything to mess it up?”
“Then why don’t we attack them?” Terramon suggested. “Now, before the sun rises! Catch them off guard!”
“They’ll ha
ve sentries,” Shalana noted. “And we don’t have the numbers for a full-scale assault on their army. We’ve been fighting hit-and-run battles, and now there’s nowhere left to run.”
“We knew this was a war we couldn’t win,” Vaaler told him. “That’s why Roggen was supposed to take the elders and children into the mountains to hide.”
Shalana could tell from Vaaler’s tone he was still angry at Roggen for disobeying them. But seeing the reunions of her warriors with their husbands, wives, children, and parents, she was glad he had ignored her orders.
We’re all going to die anyway. Better they had one last chance to say their good-byes.
Before she had a chance to try and explain this to Vaaler, however, her father chimed in.
“What would be the point? If the Danaan didn’t hunt them down, they’d all be dead in a few weeks anyway.
“When the end comes,” the old man added, speaking softly, “the elders will take care of the children, quick and painless. Then they will take up arms and join us on the battlefield.”
Vaaler was clearly disturbed at the idea of a mass mercy killing for the hundreds of children in the camp, but Shalana knew her father was right.
“Better to fall quickly beneath a blade then die slowly of starvation and exposure,” she said softly.
“The whole point of this war was to buy time for Norr and Hadawas to return with Daemron’s Sword!” Vaaler protested. “We knew we couldn’t stop the Danaan; we just wanted to slow them down.
“If all the warriors laid down their lives tomorrow, those who flee into the mountains might survive long enough for Norr to return. They could still be saved!”
“That’s your plan?” Terramon snorted. “Wait for Daemron’s Sword?
“I don’t believe in legends,” the old man added with a scowl.
“Hadawas did,” Shalana reminded him.
“And where is he now?” her father replied, shaking his head and wandering off in disgust.
The Scorched Earth Page 36
