Children of Fire (27 page)

True, the monks wanted to help him. Or seemed to, at least. But what would they expect in return? And what could they offer? The one thing he wanted—the power to bend and shape Chaos to his will—could only come from his master.

“I will stay with Rexol.”

Jerrod sighed. “Then I must go with you two, as well.” He turned to address his followers. “Let the others know what is happening. Try to keep our escape secret as long as you can. Make sure our horses are ready.”

“And have someone find our charms,” Rexol added. “Especially my staff. They were taken from us when we were thrown into the cell.”

Jerrod nodded, The three ran off to carry out their new instructions.

“I have agreed to help you with this only because I see no other way to ensure the safety of the savior,” he warned the wizard. “But once this Crown is discovered, we must flee this place and the Pontiff's wrath.”

Rexol gave a short, dark laugh. “Once I possess the power of the Crown we won't have to.”

The wizard muttered a few quick words, and Keegan sensed the faint whisper of Chaos as it bubbled up into the mortal world.

“Follow me,” his master ordered.

Rexol took the lead, Keegan and Jerrod fell in behind. They moved at a brisk, purposeful walk to avoid attracting attention. The members of the Monastery were still unaware that anything was amiss; the halls within the building were largely unpopulated. Those few who did see them were always at a distance, and took no notice of the three robed figures.

Focused intently on maintaining control over his spell, Rexol didn't speak. But his steps never wavered, and he never hesitated on his chosen path. Even with his power dulled by a lack of witchroot and charms, his spell was still strong enough to follow the Crown's call.

He led them to a staircase near the back, then down into the Monastery's lower levels. This time they weren't going into the dungeons, but rather the Order's fabled libraries: room after room after room of shelves piled with books dating back to the Cataclysm itself. Under normal circumstances Keegan knew his master would have marveled at the manuscripts they passed. But even the ancient knowledge contained within their brittle, yellow pages had not deterred Rexol from his all-consuming goal.

The Monastery's libraries were massive beyond all comprehension. Keegan had heard it said that all the knowledge of man was contained within these archives, and as they had marched past the seemingly endless array of books he had begun to believe such a claim might be true. They went ever deeper into the archives, turning and twisting through the maze of shelves, descending staircase after staircase until Keegan was certain they must be hundreds of feet below the earth.

The deeper they went the heavier the air became. Inches of dust, the accumulation of centuries, could be seen on the books and shelves of the lower levels. Their feet stirred up gray, choking clouds from the floor as they walked. Even those who had sworn their lives to preserving the knowledge and worship of the True Gods did not venture this far down into the labyrinth of documents. Keegan wondered how long it had been since anyone, even the Pontiff himself, had been through here.

His wondering was cut short when he felt the first wisps of the Crown's power reaching out to him. Rexol's spell had been woven around the mage; it hadn't included his apprentice. The fact that Keegan could now sense the Talisman's presence must mean they were getting close.

It was faint at first: a half-imagined hum, a zephyr wafting across his consciousness. But it grew steadily stronger. Soon the Chaos made his blood tingle, the same sensation he felt when he ate witchroot or channeled the energy from one of his charms. By the time they had reached their destination Keegan's head was pounding and his body was sweating from the Chaos boiling within him. He couldn't even imagine the intensity of what Rexol was feeling with magic heightening his awareness.

Their way was barred by a heavy iron door.

“The Crown is just beyond here,” Rexol whispered through tightly clenched teeth. His body was trembling, the veins on his head and neck were bulging out, and tears were streaming from his wide, wild eyes.

“Don't do this, Rexol,” Jerrod begged one more time. “If you are right and the Talisman is here then it will destroy you. Remember: I have seen your death in my dreams.”

Rexol let loose a sound that was half laugh and half scream. “You said the Pontiff would burn me at the stake! You saw me die in flame and fire! Your dreams are worth nothing.”

He pushed on the heavy door, but it didn't budge. He staggered back, his trembling hands clutching his head as if his mind was about to tear his skull apart.

“Quickly, Keegan. Open the door.”

Without question the apprentice did as he was told. It was a simple matter to shape the magic now, even without the witchroot in his blood. The very air was alive with the power of the Crown; all he had to do was draw on it. He crafted a simple shaping designed to shove the door ajar just enough to break the lock holding it shut. Focusing his mind, he released the spell.

Instead of a gentle push, the metal ripped from the hinges as the door exploded free and was hurled into the room. It smashed into the wall with a deafening clang, a warped and shredded piece of metal.

Inside the room the Crown sat on a small pedestal, glowing fiercely with its own light. Rexol staggered forward as if he was drunk and seized it with both hands. He fell to his knees and placed the Talisman atop his head.

Rexol's mind exploded with the knowledge of infinity. A million voices screamed out, the thoughts of every living being in the world rising in a single unbearable cacophony. The span of history trailed out behind him, a vast landscape stretching back to the Cataclysm and beyond, to the very dawn of time itself. The multiplicity of infinite futures fanned out before him, ever shifting, changing, dissolving and re-forming.

It overwhelmed him, crushing him beneath the unfathomable scope of pure Chaos rushing in to fill the empty void of what had once been a human mind. His mortal self was engulfed by the flood of knowledge, his very identity drowned out like a flickering candle doused by all the oceans of the world at once.

A minuscule corner of what had once been Rexol clung briefly to his identity, a single star resisting the pull of an infinite universe. And within that tiny grain of self Rexol knew he was going to die, utterly devoured by the untamable power of the Talisman's magic.

Rexol's last sensation before he was swallowed by the Chaos Sea was the curious realization that he was not alone.

Daemron felt it like a hot knife thrust into the back of his skull; a searing pain alerting him to the fact that a passage had been opened to the mortal world. His body collapsed as he cast his consciousness out, determined not to miss his chance again.

He saw it flickering in the infinite chasm like a beacon of blue fire. He marked it: latching on, seizing it so he would not lose it again even as he let his consciousness return to his physical form. His connection to the mortal world would not be severed this time.

“No!” Keegan screamed as the blue fires of Chaos engulfed his Master. Instinctively he lunged forward, but Jerrod held him back.

“Do not interfere,” the monk declared in a solemn voice. “This is his destiny.”

Rexol's skin swelled and split, and a bubbling blue liquid oozed out from a thousand tiny rips and tears in his flesh. His back arched as he shrieked in agony, and then his body exploded. The flames flared up, vaporizing the spray of blood and bone instantly—then suddenly the fire was snuffed out. The Crown clattered to the floor amid a small pile of black ash: all that remained of the greatest wizard of the Southlands.

Keegan stood paralyzed with horror and disbelief at what he had just witnessed. His mind numb, he didn't object when Jerrod grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.

“Every person in the Monastery will have felt that Chaos surge. We have to get out of here right now.”

The monk ran through the archives, winding his way back up to the surface and dragging the still-dazed Keegan behind them. When they burst forth from the library half a dozen of Jerrod's followers were waiting for them. Three other monks—no doubt those loyal to the Pontiff—lay dead on the floor.

“This way,” they shouted, leading Jerrod and Keegan through the halls.

The sounds of fierce battle all around him managed to pierce the veil of confusion that clouded Keegan's mind. “We'll never make it,” he mumbled.

“We're outnumbered but we're better organized,” one of their escorts reassured him. “The others still aren't sure what's happening, they can't tell friend from foe. It won't take long for the Pontiff and Yasmin to rally them, though.”

They encountered several small pockets of resistance in their flight, but only ever two or three monks at a time. The six-person vanguard surrounding them made short work of this disorganized opposition while ensuring neither Jerrod nor Keegan was ever in danger. They never even had to break stride as they ran, the bodies of those foolish enough to get in their way left broken and quivering in their wake.

And then they were at the wide-open Monastery gates. Another six monks were waiting for them there. At least a dozen cowled bodies littered the courtyard. A pair of horses stood saddled up and ready to ride; another pair had been loaded with provisions. Keegan could clearly see Rexol's gorgon's-head staff, wrapped in a blanket and strapped lengthwise across one of the packs, among the supplies.

“The four fastest mounts in the Monastery,” the woman holding the reins explained as Jerrod and Keegan climbed into their respective saddles.

“They'll follow us,” Keegan said in a dull, faraway voice.

It was a stupid comment but his mind was still struggling to grasp the full implication of everything that had just happened.

“They'll have to follow on foot,” the woman replied, her voice grim. “I hobbled all the other horses in the stable. They'll have to be put down.”

“Close the gates behind us and hold them off as long as you can,” Jerrod shouted, spurring his mount toward freedom.

The other animals, including Keegan's own horse, instinctively leapt after the leader. It was all the dazed young man could do to hold on as they charged out into the moonlit desert night, scattering the small knot of sleepy and confused supplicants gathered outside the gate.

Daemron made a final inspection of the bloodstained inscriptions on the rock. All seemed right; the ritual was ready to begin. The nine he had chosen waited impatiently nearby, separated from the crowd by the arcane symbols scrawled across the ground.

These nine were the strongest, the most ruthless, the most cunning of his people. He had chosen them to be his Minions, chosen them to return to the mortal world. After an eternity of banishment into this blighted realm these nine alone would be sent back. They were his heroes, his champions—and the ones he most feared.

He ruled through strength and strength alone. His generals bowed down to his power, not to him. The effort of maintaining his recently forged connection with the mortal world had cost him much of this power. Bridging the gap across the chasm would further tax what remained. After the ritual he might seem vulnerable, a target for rebellion.

Not the small pockets of resistance that plagued his kingdom now; they were mere nuisance, rebel insects to be crushed at his leisure. No, this would be a real rebellion, a true threat to his thousand-year reign. An uprising of mortal armies against an Immortal King, the armies led by a champion who thought to seize the power of a God for himself. Daemron knew all too well that such a thing was possible. But with these nine gone, the greatest threat to his rule would be sent across the chasm, through the rolling mists of the maelstrom to the mortal paradise placidly adrift in the Chaos Sea. And should all go as planned, the Minions would prepare the way for his own return.

The Legacy of the Old Gods was fading; the Gods themselves were dead. The veil hiding the world of the mortals had grown thin, allowing the brief surge of the Crown's magic to momentarily tear the gauze aside, revealing a beacon to show him his escape from this nether realm.

He himself could not return to the mortal world. Not yet. He had tested the Legacy, found its weakest points. But even these he could not yet cross. Not without the power of his Talismans to aid him. The Old Gods had woven their enchantments with special care to keep their fallen champion imprisoned in the shadow world Daemron had escaped to after the Cataclysm. But he was strong enough to send others through.

It would be difficult, but he could do it. They could find the Talismans and bring them back to him. With his rightful power restored, he would break free of this prison and return to rule the world he had once claimed as his own. And this time, the Old Gods would not be there to oppose him.

Still, fear held him back, made him hesitate. Sending the nine across the chasm was a calculated risk, but a risk all the same. If he failed the Chaos would devour him, swallowing up his very essence. No mortal feared death as he did, for no mortal could truly understand what a God had to lose.

Had his hesitation been noticed? Daemron scanned the crowd nervously. Were the usurpers who would overthrow him watching from within the crowd, plotting against his life, knowing he was soon to be weakened and drained by the awesome magic he was about to wield?

The misshapen features of his followers watched intently, some licking their fangs, others grinning from ear to ear across their pig-like snouts. Those with wings flapped them softly in anticipation. Once his people had been beautiful, but a millennium trapped in this prison world floating in the Chaos Sea had deformed them beyond all abnormality. Daemron had created this world as a refuge; but unlike the mortal world fashioned by the Old Gods, the boundaries of his realm could not hold the effects of Chaos at bay.

Here the Chaos Spawn walked the land unchecked, ravaging the wastes and wilderness and any foolish enough to venture from the high walls of the lone city Daemron had constructed. And with each generation, with each new birth, the physical manifestation of Chaos became more predominant among his people, twisting, changing, and transforming what had once been human followers into nameless abominations.

With relief he realized his hesitation had gone unnoticed. These mutants, these disfigured demons that bowed down to him, were not focused on their leader. Right now they cared nothing for the Immortal King who had once promised their ancestors all that the mortal world could offer. The eyes of his people were focused solely on the Minions, the nine chosen to go back.

This barren, blasted land Daemron and his followers had escaped to was a world devoid of all hope save one: the chance to one day escape this forsaken realm and return to the mortal world. The Minions were fulfilling that hope, and offering a chance for all the others to return as well. Those left behind studied the chosen nine, their pale eyes filled with hate, resentment, envy—and silent prayers for a successful mission.

Reassured, he began the ritual. From his scaled lips came whispered words of power. His clawed hands wove slow patterns in the air. His black leather wings twitched ever so slightly.

The sky began to churn slowly. Rumbling thunderclouds formed overhead. A chill filled the air, and those in the crowd without fur began to shiver. The symbols on the ground began to pulse with an eerie light. The Chaos began to gather.

His voice became louder, his hands began to move quicker. The thick muscles beneath his crimson skin began to flex and strain. His wings beat in staccato bursts, lifting his hooved feet several inches off the ground.

A glowing arch formed in the air; pale at first, then intensifying in brightness. Fearful moans and growls came from the watching crowd as they slithered and crawled farther away from their liege.

His wings beat furiously now, raising him twenty feet into the air. Lightning flashed from the sky, striking his form and engulfing it in fierce white light.

High above the crowd he threw back his horned head to the godless heavens and screamed out the sacred profanities. His form twisted and writhed in the white light, calling down a rain of arcane magic from the torn sky. With each convulsion a searing bolt of lightning surged down into the crowd, incinerating the demons it struck in a blinding blaze of heat. The panicked spectators scattered across the empty field, fleeing the unholy Chaos storm.

The Minions stood frozen as statues. Protected by the mystical runes carved into the bloodstained rock beneath their feet, they had no need to fear the spell their master was invoking. The reek of charred flesh filled their muzzles, causing them to salivate hungrily, but they kept their eyes averted from the crowd, focused on the glowing arch.

Daemron shrieked the words of the incantation, the white heat tearing through him, ripping him apart inside with a terrible, wonderful agony. His mind he reached out, grasping, flailing, desperately searching to bridge the chasm of infinite space and time separating him from the mortal world. The pain intensified; his racked body dropped from the sky, plummeting to earth and crashing on the ground, still bathed in the blazing white light. The crack of an Immortal's breaking bones echoed across the dead plains—but Daemron was oblivious to the carnage wrought upon his physical shell.

The precipice of madness loomed before him; his disintegrating mind teetered on its edge. One final time he reached out … and grasped the edges of the mortal world. Clinging on with the tattered remnants of his sanity, he began to will the passage to form. His claws clutched spasmodically at the earth, carving gashes in the stone.

The Minions watched the portal.

His body began to spasm, and in a corner of his battered, broken mind Daemron began to draw strength from those around him. Only the Minions were shielded from his hunger. From his crumpled form tendrils of red smoke poured out, racing across the landscape in pursuit of the fleeing crowd. The fastest and strongest escaped, but those in the rear were swallowed up by the red clouds, their screaming bodies melting into pools of bubbling liquid.

Daemron fed on their suffering, drawing strength enough to complete the passage, to open the portal. The glowing white arch turned blue, then green, then clouded over like fogged glass before clearing to show a landscape of endless white sand beneath a star-filled sky.

The first Minion leapt forward into the doorway, disappearing through the arch. The others followed quickly, less than a second separating each one. Their Master's crippled body jumped and twitched and shook on the ground, every muscle taut with the strain of keeping the portal open. The seventh Minion was through when the light surrounding Daemron vanished and the arch collapsed, slicing the eighth minion in half as he tried to cross over.

The ninth Minion stared at the severed remains of her companion lying on the rock—one arm and leg, half the torso, most of the head. Black ichor oozed from the corpse, seeping into the ground. The lone Minion turned away, sickened. Now she saw the remains of the crowd, many of them wounded and dying, trampled in the mad rush to escape the terrible power of the Chaos her master had unleashed upon them.

Her lord rose slowly to his feet, charred and smoking body hunched over in pain and exhaustion. His left leg jutted out at an odd angle, but Daemron ignored his injury to turn his full fury on the Minion before him.

“You should not have hesitated,” he whispered.

The Minion threw herself on the ground before her master. “My lord, I had no chance. The portal collapsed even as Aeschel tried to cross.”

Daemron made no reply but held out a single claw, burned and scarred as the rest of his body. Red fire flashed out from his eyes and engulfed the Minion. Her scream was cut off as her form was consumed by the flame in less than a second.

He began to move toward the injured in the crowd, standing a little straighter than before, the red flame flashing again and again among his followers who lay helpless on the ground, taking what remained of their wounded essence. By the time he was done his broken bone had mended, his burned flesh was completely healed, and none of the injured was left alive.

An infinity away, across the Chaos Sea, darkest night settled in on the sweeping dunes of the Southern Desert. Invisible beneath the faint stars and moonless sky, seven twisted forms made their way across the sand of the mortal world.