Children of Fire
Advance Reader's Copy â Not for Sale
CHILDREN OF FIRE
Drew Karpyshyn
Del Rey
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
Tentative On-Sale Date: August 27, 2013
Tentative On-Sale Month: September 2013
Tentative Print Price: $26.00
Tentative eBook Price: $12.99
Please note that books will not be available in stores until the above on-sale date. All reviews should be scheduled to run after that date.
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B
Y
D
REW
K
ARPYSHYN
S
TAR
W
ARS
Star Wars
: Darth Bane
Path of Destruction
Star Wars
: Darth Bane
Rule of Two
Star Wars
: Darth Bane
Dynasty of Evil
Star Wars
: The Old Republic
Revan
Star Wars
: The Old Republic
Annihilation
M
ASS
E
FFECT
Mass Effect: Revelation
Mass Effect: Ascension
Mass Effect: Retribution
T
EMPLE
H
ILL
Baldur's Gate II: Throne of Bhaal
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
Children of Fire
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Drew Karpyshyn
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
D
EL
R
EY
is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-345-54223-6
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54676-0
www.delreybooks.com
Book design by Caroline Cunningham
To Jennifer,
my love and my life
All things are born from fire. The flames of Chaos are the source of all life and all creation; the cause of all death and all destruction. The entirety of the mortal world was forged from the inferno of the Burning Sea, the Chaos shaped and bound by the power of the Old Gods to create an island of tranquility floating in an ocean of flame.
First came the plants and trees. Next came the fish of the oceans, then the birds of the air and the beasts of the land. Finally, the Old Gods created woman and man, and they spread out to populate the newly formed world.
But Chaos rebels against structure and order, and even the magic of a God cannot bind it forever. Nothing is eternal.
âS
ALIDARR,
founder and first Pontiff of the Order
Nothing lasts forever.
He knows this better than any. Elevated from the ranks of mortals by the Talismans; transformed by the infinite power of Chaos into a God himself â¦Â only to be cast down. For too long he has been imprisoned in this nether realm of smoke and shadow for the unforgivable sin of daring to challenge divine authority. But now the Old Gods are gone, and he alone remains.
Just as he is alone now, a single figure in a deserted, ashen plain: dry, cracked earth beneath a gray and featureless sky. He stands before a fountain of white stone, a simple pedestal four feet high with a wide, deep bowl atop. He traces a clawed finger around the rim of the bowl, transcribing the final arcane figures of the ritual with the blood dripping from his nail â¦Â his blood, the blood of an Immortal. The offering will cripple him, leaving him weak and vulnerable as the magic feasts on his power. But it will give strength to his spell.
His is not the only blood that stains the fountain. A dozen of his followers, chosen from the descendants of those exiled with him, have died for this spell. He had hoped they would come without protest, giving up their own lives so that others might have a chance to escape this wasted land and return to the world their ancestors once knew. Not one was willing to make the sacrifice. But in this bleak nether realm his will is absolute, and those who were chosen for the ritual could not deny his claim. Their lifeblood now fills the fountain's bowl, their broken and shattered bones piled around the base of its pedestal.
The fountain trembles beneath his touch; the crimson pool quivers with the power of Chaos. Power enough to save him. Power enough to destroy him.
The lives of his followers hang in the balance with his own. Should the magic consume him, the denizens of this realm will tear one another apart to claim his barren throne. But they are mortalâwhat is life to them? How much more does an Immortal risk? He alone can understand the consequences of what he is doing; a calculated gamble; one he has no choice but to take.
For too long he has been forced to sit and watch, doing nothing, waiting in vain for the Legacyâthe barrier that shields the mortal world from him and his followersâto crumble. Day by day, year by year, century by century he has slowly watched his power ebb, waiting for this last spell of the Old Gods to fade. But the magic of a God dies slowly. The Legacy is still strong, and now he himself is beginning to wither and die. The risk is great, but he can wait no longer.
Placing a scaled hand on either side of the bowl he tilts his head back to the empty sky and closes his eyes. Softly he begins to chant, mystic words meant to draw upon the power of Chaos, to channel it through his body and into the fountain.
He holds the gathering magic for as long as he is able, until the building power bursts forth in a rush of heat. The blood within the fountain seethes and boils. Thick bubbles burst with wet, sickly sounds, releasing clouds of crimson steam. The flesh of his palms begins to cook against the scorching stone of the fountain's bowl. Pointed teeth clenched, he endures the searing pain in silent agony as the color is burned away and the blood is transformed into clear, crystal water.
Only then does he let go, staggering back and gasping for breath as the waters quickly cool. His great leather wings twitching in anticipation, he watches as the bubbling surface of the fountain goes still, becoming a perfectly reflective pool. The ritual has begun.
He reaches up with one burned and blistered hand to clasp the fist-sized black stone that hangs from his neck. He has worn it for many years, dangling from a thin gold chain running through the tiny hole bored through its heart. Over the centuries he has kept it close, drawing patience and strength as he waited for this day that has finally arrived.
With a sharp tug he tears the stone free, oblivious to the bite of the chain digging into the flesh along the back of his neck before it snaps and slithers to the ground at his feet.
The stone is cold in his grasp, but quickly warms to his touch. Symbols are traced in blood across its smooth, dark surface: his blood. Runes from the Old Tongue, they represent the four aspects of everything he once was: wizard, warrior, prophet, king. Imbued with his divine essence, the stone is his seed. The spirit of his unborn child is trapped within â¦Â a child destined to tear down the Legacy.
Stepping forward he peers into the pool and sees the mortal world: a vision of a realm still tantalizingly beyond his grasp. Ignoring the pain of his mutilated palms he grips the dark stone tightly with both hands, raising it high above his head as he begins another chant.
The magic builds within him for a second time, the heat coursing through his veins yet again. The water in the fountain begins to bubble and boil once more. The tranquil vision of the mortal world disappears, replaced by the churning flames of the Chaos Sea.
The stone begins to pulse with heat; a steady rhythm that matches the beating of his own heart. His voice rises, his words channeling the power of the spell that will carry the stone across the Sea of Flame to touch the shores of the mortal world. There it will take root, and somewhere a child will be born. His child. A child born from the fires of Chaos.
His body begins to tremble from the strain; his words falter. And in that instant the Chaos breaks free. The stone explodes in his hands, tearing open the wounded flesh of his clawed fingers as it splits into quarters. He recoils with a scream to the empty sky as the pieces tumble from his grasp, disappearing beneath the surface without a ripple.
At their touch a roaring pillar of blue flame erupts from the pool. He hurls himself clear as the tower of fire engulfs the pedestal and the surrounding bones, utterly consuming them before vanishing a second later with a thunderous clap.
He lies huddled on the ground, panting, his wings folded over his head and back in an instinctive reaction to shield himself from the withering heat of the conflagration. Slowly the wings part and he peeks from beneath them at the scorched earth and small pile of black ash, a God humbled. Chaos cannot be contained; cannot be controlled.
Yet he senses that all is not lost. The stone was split, its essence fractured; but the four quarters were consumed by the fires of the spell. Stretching across the infinite breadth of the Chaos Sea, the effects will be muted and faint. Yet even those pebbles will send ripples to lap against the shores of the mortal world.
Not one child, but four, each touched by the power of his magic, each marked to be born in the flames of strife and suffering. Mortals imbued with the burning essence of a banished and forgotten God, their lives inevitably linked and intertwined. Even he cannot foresee their ultimate fate; salvation and destruction sit poised in perfect balance, the outcome is uncertain, his vision unclear.
Yet as he unfurls his wings and rises once more to his feet, he is certain of one thing: Chaos has been unleashed.
