Chaos Unleashed (30 page)

As he entered the fray, he felt a sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. There was an almost palpable energy in the air, an excitement that made him feel as if victory was inevitable.

The Sword.

He felt its pull, drawing him willingly—eagerly—into the battle. But Jerrod resisted its call; he wasn’t here to help take the city.

This is as personal as it gets.

Scythe’s words had resonated with him. They’d touched something deep inside, something he’d buried for so long and so deep he almost forgot it existed. For over twenty years he’d served his cause, sacrificing everything to find the Children of Fire and help them fulfill their destiny.

But he hadn’t worked alone. He’d recruited others to his cause, just as Ezra had once recruited him. Over the years scores—if not hundreds—of men and women, some from within the Order and others from beyond the Monastery’s walls, had served with him. Nazir, the previous Pontiff, had worked relentlessly to quash what he called the Heresy of the Burning Savior. And Yasmin had been his most ardent follower.

How many
of my friends and followers died by her hand? How many were burned at the stake, or tortured to death in her interrogation rooms?

Rounding a corner, he scrambled up the side of one of the closely packed buildings that lined the streets. Below him the fighting was spreading quickly, and everywhere he looked the Order was losing ground.

Once again he felt the call of the Sword, urging him to leap down from on high and bring death to the enemy. Again, he resisted, setting off along the rooftops toward the center of the city.

Of all those who had sworn to walk Ezra’s path, only he was left. Some had given their lives willingly over the years so that he could evade capture whenever Yasmin and her Inquisitors had closed in on him. Others had sacrificed themselves to help him and Keegan escape the Monastery after Rexol and his apprentice were imprisoned. Most had simply been hunted down and slaughtered for daring to defy the Order’s doctrine.

He had accepted their deaths as part of the greater good. He had swallowed his anger and sorrow each time, not allowing himself to become distracted from his goal. Now they were nearing the endgame. Soon, one way or another, the prophecy would be fulfilled.

Nazir was gone, slain when the Minions attacked the Monastery. But Yasmin was still alive, and the memories of all those he had lost cried out for her blood.

This is as personal as it gets.

He knew Yasmin well. He had studied her from afar for years just as she had studied him, each trying to know the enemy better in their deadly game of cat and mouse. She was ruthlessly practical, but she also understood the importance of symbols, especially for the common masses. Whenever she came to a city or town—whether as the Pontiff or in her earlier days as an Inquisitor—she always set up her private quarters in a building right beside the home of the city’s ruler.

She projects humility by living an austere existence while sitting in the lap of luxury. She shames those around her for their excess, and intimidates them with her constant presence.

He knew where he’d find Yasmin. And when he did, only one of them would walk away.

Yasmin knew that the city was lost. The enemies at the gate had been joined by rebels inside the walls; the Order’s defeat was only a matter of time.

But even though virtually all her followers were being slaughtered in the streets, there was still hope. If she could find Cassandra and reclaim the Crown, the Order could rise again. And Methodis was the key.

He lay huddled in the corner of her otherwise empty room. As she always did, she’d had all the furnishings removed when she claimed it for her own.

Material possessions are a sign of weakness.

The enemy would eventually find their way here to the center of the city. She had hoped to interrogate the healer before that happened, but now she was having second thoughts. She might need to flee…taking Methodis with her, of course.

She briefly regretted sending the guards away. At the time she thought the attack would be easily beaten back, but now she could have used them to help transport her still-barely-conscious prisoner.

I can take to the rooftops,
she realized.
Avoid the fighting. Even carrying him with me I—

Her thoughts were cut short as she sensed his arrival. For an instant she refused to believe it was true. She’d hunted him for so long, come so close to capturing him so many times, that she couldn’t believe he would show up now.

“Yasmin!” Jerrod called from the far end of the hall. “It’s time to pay for your crimes!”

“Only a heretic would dare to pass judgment on the Pontiff!” she shouted back, a smile crossing her face.

Jerrod was coming toward her, walking slowly. She could sense he was alone, just as he could sense the same about her.

“I’ve dreamed of this day more times than you can imagine,” she told him as he reached the door to her room.

“Leave the dreaming to the Seers,” Jerrod advised.

She ran the fingers of her left hand gently over the scarred skin of her scalp as she studied him: a nervous habit she had broken many years ago returning in the anticipation of what was to come.

He looked much as she remembered from their last meeting several years ago—a fit but otherwise ordinary man. He wasn’t particularly broad or tall; there was hardly anything distinguishing about him at all. But she knew he was highly skilled and very, very dangerous.

But so am I!

“You’re unarmed,” he noted. “Did you lose your staff?”

“The Pontiff never carries a weapon,” she reminded him. “But I will enjoy killing you with my bare hands.”

He wasn’t carrying a weapon, either, but Yasmin knew that didn’t make him any less deadly.

In the corner, Methodis groaned softly and Yasmin seized on the distraction to make the first move.

She came at him high, leaping into the air and snapping out the heel of her boot at his head. Jerrod slapped it away as she flew past and spun around as he threw an elbow at her ribs. Yasmin blocked it with her forearm, twisting in the air so that when she landed they were still facing each other, but standing on the opposite sides of the room.

“A pedestrian first pass,” she taunted. “I expected something more from you.”

“It’s never good to reveal too much too early,” he answered.

He came rushing forward at a strange angle, and Yasmin instinctively backed up, uncertain of his line of attack. Her retreat took her into the corner of the room as Jerrod jumped at a forty-five-degree angle, planted one foot on the wall for leverage, and kicked off in the complete opposite direction, his fist slamming down at the bridge of her nose.

The unorthodox move happened too fast for the eye to follow, but the Pontiff’s senses operated at a higher level. In the instant it took to execute, she realized not only what he was doing but that she had nowhere to dodge. Backed into the corner, her only option was to throw her head forward, absorbing the blow with the top of her bare scalp.

At the last instant Jerrod opened his fist and struck her with an open palm to keep from breaking his knuckles on the hard bone of her skull. The blow hit hard enough to drive Yasmin to her knees, and Jerrod’s momentum brought him down on top of her. But as she dropped she rolled onto her back and kicked up hard with both feet.

Her kick lacked any real power, but it was strong enough to throw Jerrod off her. He landed on his feet, legs spread wide and knees bent as he dropped into a fighting crouch just as Yasmin popped back up.

“Unconventional,” she told him. “But you weren’t quick enough to take advantage.”

“I have a few more tricks up my sleeve,” he told her.

An empty threat,
Yasmin thought.

Though no damage had been done in their two brief exchanges, they’d tested each other’s limits. And the Pontiff knew she was quicker.

She threw herself at him full force with a blinding flurry of kicks, punches, elbows, and knees. Jerrod countered the barrage, deflecting, dodging, and blocking each attack. She struck with perfect form and precision each time, but Jerrod couldn’t match her. On one of his counters his balance shifted a miniscule amount to his heels, and she seized on the advantage by pressing in close and getting low. With better leverage, each of her attacks packed even more force and she relentlessly drove him back. He tried to disengage, but with her superior position she cut off each avenue of escape and slowly backed him into the corner.

In desperation he threw his hands over his head and spun away, having no choice but to absorb a series of devastating punches to his midsection to break away and create some space. She heard a rib crack and Jerrod grunted in pain as he retreated to the far side of the room, breathing hard.

“Tired already?” she said, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Maybe you should have been training more instead of running around consorting with wizards and heretics.”

Jerrod came at her again, throwing a series of feints and fakes to confuse her into making a mistake. But Yasmin didn’t make mistakes. She had spent thousands upon thousands of hours perfecting her technique, and even more meditating and learning to channel her inner spark of Chaos into perfect physical action.

She calmly countered each of his moves, never overreacting or taking a foolish risk that would leave her exposed. And once again she picked away at the tiny imperfections in his form, slowly building up each subtle edge and incremental advantage until she had him once more out of position.

This time she exploited her opportunity far more aggressively, striking for his face and throat with a succession of tight chops and sharp jabs from the edge of her palm. As he slapped her attacks away he overreached just enough for her to seize his thumb and snap it back, dislocating it with a sharp snap.

Jerrod screamed and stumbled back. Instead of pursuing, she let him go, taking a moment to relish his pain.

“You’re going to lose,” she said. “We both know it. It will take time, but this will inevitably end with you broken and bloody at my feet.”

Throwing all caution to the wind, Jerrod came at her with pure, reckless aggression. His rage would have overwhelmed a lesser opponent; against the Pontiff it only opened him up to a brutal beating.

She slid under a wild punch and smashed her forehead into his nose, crumpling it with a sickening thud. Undeterred by the blood gushing down his face, he lashed out with a knee. Yasmin dodged the blow by dropping low and slamming her shoulder into his other leg. Braced against the floor, it buckled sideways, ripping ligaments and cartilage.

Unable to support his weight, Jerrod collapsed. As he fell, she caught his wrist and twisted, dislocating his elbow. Yasmin rolled clear of her broken opponent, kicking him hard enough in the face to knock out a tooth as she did so.

She stood over her wounded foe, staring down at him.

“This is actually your fault,” she told him. “You were already a legend when I joined the Monastery. Jerrod the Heretic.

“They told such wild tales of your incredible prowess that I dedicated myself to becoming the greatest warrior the Order had ever known. I vowed that if we ever met, I would destroy you.”

She ran her fingers over her scalp again, then quickly snatched her hand back down when she realized what she was doing. At her feet, Jerrod began to cough and choke until he spit out a viscous mixture of blood and phlegm.

“Admit it,” she demanded. “I’m better than you ever were. You could never beat me.”

“I could never beat you,” he said, the words muffled by his rapidly swelling lips and the blood pouring from his broken nose and into his mouth. “But she can!”

Yasmin’s awareness had been almost completely focused on Jerrod during their battle. It was only now that he was vanquished that she sensed another’s arrival.

Spinning to meet the new threat, she saw a small Islander girl standing in the door, carrying a strange silver blade. And then the girl vanished, replaced by a demon made of steel and rage.

The monster launched itself at her with a speed unlike anything Yasmin had ever faced. The Pontiff threw herself into a back handspring as the blade sliced through the air in too many different directions for her to follow. For an instant she thought she had miraculously escaped unharmed, but as she landed her left foot simply gave way, the tendon in her heel severed so cleanly she hadn’t even felt the pain.

As Yasmin crumpled awkwardly to the ground the creature was on her again. This time she actually saw the blow coming though she wasn’t fast enough to move out of the way.

Daemron’s Sword lopped her head from her shoulders in one smooth stroke, sending it spinning through the air. The Pontiff’s consciousness endured just long enough for her awareness to sense the room tumbling around her, and the last image to pass through her brain was that of her own decapitated body toppling forward, a dozen feet away.

M
ETHODIS COULD FEEL
the warmth of a lantern shining on his face, but he wasn’t ready to open his eyes yet. They itched and burned, and he knew bright light would only make them worse. His throat was dry and scratchy, so parched it hurt to swallow. His empty stomach was clenching and cramping, as if trying to digest itself to feed his ravenous hunger.

He recognized all the symptoms as signs that the bliss-wort he’d taken was almost completely out of his system.

That means they’ll begin the interrogation soon.

Knowing there were far worse torments to come, he let his eyes peek open just a crack. To his surprise he wasn’t in some kind of prison or torture room; he was lying in bed in the room at the back of his shop.

Impossible!

Closing his eyes again, he tried to dig up memories from the delirium that had gripped him the past few days. He could remember the Pontiff’s speaking to him, but he couldn’t recall her torturing him.

Maybe she didn’t. I don’t seem to be injured or in pain beyond the expected withdrawal symptoms.

He vaguely remembered the Pontiff taking him from his cell, carrying him over her shoulder like a sack of flour as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

Did that really happen, or was it part of some bizarre fever dream?

There was a man, he suddenly recalled. He and the Pontiff fought. And then a woman. There was something familiar about her…

No! It couldn’t be. She’s gone. It had to be a dream.

But then how did he end up back in his shop?

“Drink this,” a woman said, placing a cup up to his lips.

They’re trying to drug me to make me talk!

He clamped his lips together and turned his head away.

“You always told me healers make the worst patients,” the woman told him. “Now quit being childish and drink!”

Methodis opened his eyes to see Scythe’s olive-skinned face hovering over him. The woman sitting on his bed was no longer the fifteen-year-old girl she’d been when he last saw her, but her eyes still had the same spark and spirit he’d seen on the day she was born. She had grown into a beautiful young lady though there was an edge to her features and a hardness in her gaze that made her seem older than he knew she was.

“They told me you were gone,” Methodis said, his dry throat making his raspy voice crack.

“I came back,” she answered curtly. “Now drink!”

He took a small sip from the cup, and a cool, syrupy liquid dribbled across his tongue.

“Good?” she asked.

“A little more,” he said, and this time the words didn’t hurt to speak.

This time he drank deeply, letting the elixir coat and soothe his aching throat. But his relief quickly vanished when he remembered the danger they were in.

“You have to go, Scythe,” he warned her. “The Order is looking for me!”

“Not anymore,” she told him. “They’ve been driven from the city. Most of the Inquisitors and Seers are dead. Including the Pontiff.”

“You killed her,” Methodis said, as random images bubbled up from his memory.

“She deserved to die,” Scythe told him. “I’m just sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner.”

Scythe stood up and set the cup on the small table beside the bed.

“When I think of what they did to you…”

She trailed off, but Methodis could see the emotions churning inside her.

So much anger. So much hate.

“I’m okay, Scythe,” he assured her, sitting up in his bed. “They didn’t hurt me.”

“You don’t have to worry about sparing my feelings,” she told him. “If you tell me what they did, we can start trying to help you.”

“They didn’t do anything,” he said, laughing. But this time his chuckle wasn’t a mad giggle; it was warm and natural. “I gave myself an overdose of bliss-wort before they grabbed me.”

“No wonder you look terrible,” she said, clearly relieved. “I’ll go find you some golden-stem extract to settle your stomach.”

“You still remember your lessons,” Methodis said, grinning. “I’m impressed.”

“If that impresses you, wait until you hear the rest of what I have to tell you,” Scythe told him.

Then she bent down and gave him a fierce hug, squeezing so tight he actually thought he might pass out.

“Scythe,” he gasped, “this is no way to treat a patient.”

She loosened her grip and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead.

“Sorry. I’m just so happy to have you back; I don’t ever want to let you go.

“I’ll go get you some golden-stem,” she promised as she headed out toward the front of the shop. “And then we need to talk about Cassandra.”

She disappeared before Methodis could say anything, but a thousand questions suddenly exploded in his head.

What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, my little Spirit?

Cassandra had never visited the Western Isles; few in the Southlands had. However, it wasn’t distance that kept them relatively isolated from the mainland. Most vessels could make the journey in ten or twelve days. Bo-Shing’s enchanted ship took half that time, its dormant magic roaring to life once they hit the open sea.

But on the first day after leaving Callastan the storms began, buffeting and battering
The Chaos Runner
. Mornings were usually calm, but by afternoon the winds would rise and heaving waves would toss their vessel for hours on end, causing Cassandra’s stomach to disgorge its contents dozens of times. The storms would continue well into the night, leaving Bo-Shing and his men little time for sleep as they battled to stay afloat and on course.

When they finally reached Pellturna—the Western Isles’ infamous pirate port—Cassandra had been only too glad to drop anchor. It seemed a miracle they had made it, and she couldn’t even imagine making the journey in an unenchanted vessel.

The storms wouldn’t be as strong for ordinary vessels,
Rexol had pointed out.
The Chaos that drives the ship forward comes with a price.

Despite the knowledge that the backlash from Bo-Shing’s ship was unleashing terrible storms, Cassandra was eager to resume their journey as quickly as possible. But two days had passed since their arrival at Pellturna, and Bo-Shing showed no signs of wanting to leave anytime soon.

The city—if it could even be called that—was little more than a collection of ramshackle buildings built along the water’s edge of a sheltered cove. The inhabitants couldn’t even be bothered to maintain a dock: Visitors on larger ships had to drop anchor in the cove and come ashore in rowboats with a shallow enough draw to land directly on the beach.

The entire commerce of Pellturna was built on satisfying the vices of unscrupulous sailors: sex, alcohol, and mind-altering plants and herbs were all readily available for the right price. As Cassandra had no interest in such things, she hadn’t bothered to leave the ship. Unlike Bo-Shing and the rest of the pirates, who spent virtually all of their time visiting the local brothels.

They know there is something foul on this ship,
Rexol said.
An evil presence. I can feel it!

Cassandra had gotten used to the mage’s paranoid ranting, so she paid him little attention. If anything, he was probably just sensing the Chaos that fueled Bo-Shing’s vessel. And the pirates’ prolonged absence didn’t require some sinister explanation; they were simply filthy beasts eager to satisfy their carnal desires.

The only one in the crew who didn’t seem determined to catch some kind of venereal disease was Tork, the navigator. Bo-Shing had told her that Tork possessed the far-sight. Cassandra still wasn’t clear on exactly what that meant, but he was clearly suffering from some kind of mental imbalance. While the others engaged in their debauched revelries on land, he seemed content to putter about
The Chaos Runner
, talking to himself.

He didn’t even seem to realize Cassandra was there unless she addressed him directly; he was lost in his own private world. On a few occasions she had tried to speak with him about their destination. But whenever she asked about the island or Keystone, he would smile, shake his head, and give her the exact same answer.

“It lies beyond the Kraken’s Eye. On the edge of the world. You’ll see soon enough.”

Her frustration had grown to the point where she had decided to venture out into Pellturna herself. She didn’t have a boat to take her to shore, but it was close enough she was confident she could make it if she swam.

She made her way up to the main deck. Before she could dive into the water, however, she sensed Bo-Shing and several others returning to the ship. A second later her ears picked up the sound of several voices loudly singing off-key. The captain stood in the bow of a rickety rowboat as Shoji and several other pirates manned the oars, swaying from side to side despite the calm waters as he led his crew in drunken song.

When they reached
The Chaos Runner
they clambered up the cargo nets draped over the side of the hull, displaying impressive agility considering their inebriated state. Seeing her waiting for them, Shoji laughed and threw his arms wide as he stumbled toward her.

“A kissh from my fav’ritest lady,” he slurred.

Cassandra was in no mood for foolishness. She met his clumsy advance with an angry shove, sending him sprawling hard to the deck. Bo-Shing and the others burst out laughing, doubling over with alcohol-fueled mirth.

“Glad to see you finally made it back,” Cassandra said.

“Been up for two days straight,” the captain told her. “And only a fool sleeps in Pellturna. Good way to wake up robbed of all your clothes and your throat slit wide open.”

Cassandra didn’t bother to point out the fact that anyone with a slit throat wouldn’t wake up at all. “I hope by morning you’re sober enough to sail,” she snapped instead.

“Why?” Bo-Shing asked, seeming genuinely surprised. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Back into town,” Shoji called out from where he still lay on the deck. “Soon as we’re rested!”

“You promised to take me to the Keystone!” Cassandra reminded them. “We had a deal!”

“But I never said when we’d get there, did I?” Bo-Shing countered. “You need to learn to negotiate better,” he added, his voice rising to be heard over the laughter of his crew.

“You know what I can do if you make me angry,” Cassandra warned him, her voice low and menacing.

Unfortunately, Bo-Shing still had enough of his wits about him to call her bluff. “You do anything to me and you lose the only captain who can get you where you need to go,” he told her with a satisfied smirk.

When she didn’t have an immediate comeback, Bo-Shing turned away and stumbled across the top deck, heading for the steps that led down to his private cabin. The other pirates dispersed, staggering off in various directions to find somewhere to sleep. Shoji simply closed his eyes and lay where he had fallen, snoring almost immediately.

Cassandra followed Bo-Shing down the steps and into his room, shutting the door behind her.

Use the Crown!
Rexol urged.
Break his spirit! Bend his mind to your will!

She’d gotten so used to ignoring him that she barely even registered his words. Bo-Shing looked over at her curiously, then shrugged and began to strip off his clothes.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I sleep naked,” he said. “Feel free to get naked, too,” he offered, tossing his shirt into a corner.

“Methodis told me about your case of root rot,” Cassandra said. “If we don’t leave here tomorrow, I’ll tell the entire crew how you failed as a man.”

“Without the healer around to back up your story,” he said as he dropped onto his bed and yanked off his boots, “do you really think they’ll believe you?”

“Is that a chance you’re willing to take?” she asked.

“I think it is,” he answered with a smile.

For a brief instant she considered telling him what was really at stake: the Legacy, the Slayer’s return, the fate of the entire world. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

Is that because I know he wouldn’t care or because I think he wouldn’t believe me?

On some level, Cassandra wasn’t even sure she believed it herself. Preparing their flight from Callastan, she had managed to convince herself that bringing the Crown to the Keystone was the right thing to do. Now, however, she wasn’t sure.

At one time she’d been certain this was her destiny, and she’d embraced it. But looking back, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat helpless. She’d fled the Monastery with the Crown, hoping the Guardian would take it from her when she reached his lair beyond the edge of the mountains of the Frozen East. But in the end he’d pushed her away. Then she’d fled across the Southlands, hunted by the Minions and the Order.

Her vision of the Keystone had momentarily given her a true sense of purpose, but the time spent languishing in Pellturna had dulled its edge. In reality, little had changed. She was still alone and on the run. She hadn’t really chosen her path; it had been thrust upon her.

“You got something else to say, sweetie?” Bo-Shing asked. “Or you just going to watch as I strip down?”