The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (33 page)

“He said the Purge exposed the Order as blind fools. He accused the Seers of being false prophets leading us to our doom. He said if they could truly see the future, they would have warned us about the Danaan army instead of turning us against each other.”

“The Danaan army?” Yasmin asked aloud, remembering Xadier’s vision of battle and bloodshed sweeping the land.

“It’s true, my lady,” the old soldier chimed in. “A messenger arrived from Lady Fellmar’s cousins last night. They have holdings near the barbarian lands, but they’ve fled their estate. They claim a massive Danaan force emerged from the North Forest last week. They’re laying waste to all the tribes that cross their path.”

Yasmin didn’t say anything at first, weighing this new information. She could think of no good reason for such a message to be sent as a deception or jest. But if it was true—if the Danaan had formed an army—why hadn’t she heard about it earlier?

The unrest of the Purge had caused some lines of communication to break down, particularly on the far fringes of the Southlands. It could take a week or more for news from the borders to
reach the heart of the Southlands, particularly if the scouts who’d spotted the Danaan army were ordered to silence. Lady Fellmar’s family wouldn’t want to cause a panic while the nobles and their households made their clandestine flight to safer lands.

The Order had its own spies and agents in the Free Cities who always kept one eye out for a potential Danaan invasion, but their limited knowledge of the Dweller kingdom ended at the southern edge of the impassable forests. If the Danaan hadn’t marched south—if they’d massed their legions deep inside their borders and entered the wastelands of ice and snow far to the north of the Free Cities—it wasn’t likely any of her people would know.

Was this what Xadier’s vision showed? Was it a warning of a Danaan invasion?

But if the reports were accurate, the Danaan weren’t invading the Southlands—they were going to war against the Eastern savages. Why, Yasmin had no idea.

And then, in a flash of divine inspiration, she realized it didn’t even matter. Xadier’s vision had led them down the proper path after all.

“The Dwellers and barbarians will slaughter each other,” she said, knowing Lord Carthin and the old soldier were both waiting for some reply. “While they spill each other’s unholy blood, the Purge will cleanse the Southlands of those who do not follow and accept the true faith.

“And once the Purge is over, the righteous will be joined in a great army that will wipe away the tattered remnants of the savages and the Tree Folk in a single glorious battle!

“This is the vision of our Seers. This is the manifest destiny of the Order and all who follow it. This is the will of the True Gods!”

Yasmin had instinctively raised her voice as she spoke, her words echoing over the courtyard so that any and all could hear. She had no doubt the rumors of the Danaan army would spread
quickly, but so would her message of the Order’s inevitable victory and triumph over the pagans and apostates. Her own people would see to that.

The old soldier didn’t say anything else though she had seen him nodding during her speech. Lord Carthin was even more enthusiastic; by the end he was grinning from ear to ear.

“You have done well, Lord Carthin,” Yasmin told him, his smile stretching so that she thought his head might actually split in two. “But there is still one matter to be dealt with.”

“What is that, Pontiff?” he asked, and she couldn’t help but take some small satisfaction in his suddenly worried expression.

“What of Lady Fellmar? The one who received the message from the east?”

“She was only recently joined to Lord Fellmar in union,” Carthin explained, his voice carrying a hint of guilt. “Until a year has passed, she cannot claim to be his heir.”

“I am well aware of the law,” Yasmin reminded him sharply. “And I care nothing for your claim to these lands.”

Carthin only stared at her in silent confusion.

“What have you done with her?” Yasmin said, speaking as if to a child.

“I have taken her into custody,” the Justice replied, speaking slowly as he carefully choose each word. “She is young and naïve, and I do not believe she shares his heretical views.

“I will question her carefully before I decide her fate,” he assured Yasmin, and the Pontiff realized Carthin hadn’t been confused before—he’d simply been doing everything he could to keep from admitting he had taken the young woman prisoner.

Yasmin understood what kind of interrogation Carthin intended to inflict upon the scared and vulnerable young woman.

“You have already done more than enough for us here, Justice Carthin,” she informed him. “Let my Inquisitors relieve you
of this final burden. We will take Lady Fellmar with us when we go.”

There are some evils we will not suffer, even for the greater good!

Carthin did well to hide the disappointment on his face as he bowed yet again.

“Of course, Pontiff. I only live to serve.”

A
S THE SUN
set and the temperature began to drop, the Danaan army was already making camp. In another hour the troops would wolf down their meager rations and wrap themselves in whatever cloth and blankets they could find as they huddled in small groups seeking shelter against the cold. Sometime in the night, fatigue would triumph over cold and they would slip into a dreamless state of unconsciousness.

The weakness of the frail mortals that surrounded him sickened Orath. He felt the cold, but it did not leave him shivering and helpless. He felt the physical toil of their march, but it did not leave him exhausted and bone weary. And he never slept.

Yet even he could not go on forever without rest. A few hours in a brief meditative trance would reinvigorate his body and refresh his mind. But doing so brought risks; the trance would dull his awareness and his focus.

The ogre was constantly fighting him, its savage mind pushing and pulling on the puppet strings he used to control it. There was little chance it could completely break free of his control, even if Orath allowed himself to slip into a trance, but the beast was eager to test the limits of its constraints.

The creature fed on savagery and violence, and it had precious little to slake its hunger over the past week. After the first few encounters with unprepared clans, the Easterners had finally become
aware of the invading army. It had been inevitable: an unseen scout spotting the advancing horde would rush off to warn his people; they in turn would send messengers to the neighboring clans. Faced with an overwhelming enemy force, the nomadic tribes would gather what they could and flee long before the enemy came upon them.

The Danaan troops had picked up the pace of their relentless progress, but an army this size still moved more slowly than the clans fleeing before it. Instead of skirmishes or battles, all they encountered during their march were deserted camps on the barren ice.

Each day that passed with no one to kill made the ogre’s frustration grow. The beast could move much faster than the Danaan, but Orath had kept it close to the main force of the army. Partly to maintain control over the monster, partly as a visible reminder to the Danaan of his power, and partly as protection in case they stumbled across the mortal with Daemron’s Ring.

But there was little chance of that happening tonight. And rather than struggle to keep the ogre at heel all through the night, Orath decided to give it a small taste of freedom. In the darkness he couldn’t see the ogre on the other side of the camp, but through the bonds that held it enthralled he felt it leap up and rush off as he loosened his hold.

Careful to maintain enough control to keep it from slaughtering the sleeping Danaan—and, more importantly, to call it back once he was rested—he allowed himself to slip into his trance.

The ogre could still feel the invisible chains that kept it tethered to its hated master, but the awareness of servitude was drowned beneath the rush of cold air as it loped across the snow-covered plains.

It could smell fresh meat far to the east: a full day’s march for
the army, but less than an hour away at the speed it was moving. The sliver of moonlight reflecting off the snow was more than enough light for a creature bred from the slime and darkness in the depths of the Chaos Sea to see the way, and it wasn’t long before the dark outlines of a small cluster of tents came into view.

Figures scurried about the camp. Men, women, and children hurriedly packed in the night’s darkness so they could leave at daybreak and stay ahead of the Danaan army, unaware a far greater threat was rushing at them faster than they could imagine.

A half mile from the camp the ogre bellowed—a twisted roar of hate and anger that froze the milling barbarians in their tracks. As the echo of the ogre’s hunting call faded, the paralysis broke and the mortals panicked. Some fled off in random directions, others clutched at loved ones and collapsed to the ground weeping. The bravest men and women—a dozen warriors—gripped their weapons and turned to face in the direction of the awful sound.

A minute later the ogre fell upon them: little more than a small mountain of claws, teeth, and putrid flesh in the gloom. They stabbed at it with their spears, they hacked at it with their blades. But their weapons could not penetrate the thick, slime-covered hide of the monster in their midst.

The ogre reached out and grabbed the nearest warrior with one massive hand, crushing the bones of the screaming man’s chest while lifting him up, then smashing him to the ground.

One woman stepped in close and jabbed the tip of her spear at the beast’s left eye—the one vulnerable spot. But the ogre was too quick; it shifted to the side and twisted its massive neck so that the spear struck harmlessly against the thick muscles of its shoulder.

Before the woman could step back, the ogre lashed out with a long arm. The woman tried to duck; the claws meant to rip open her torso instead tore her head from her shoulders and sent it skittering across the snow.

The ogre laughed at the sight: an evil, guttural sound. Another warrior threw himself on its back, hacking repeatedly with a heavy axe in a futile attempt to injure the behemoth. The ogre calmly reached back with one of its grotesquely disproportionate limbs and slapped him off. The blow stunned the barbarian; he lay gasping in the snow. Before he could recover, an enormous foot stomped down on his chest and stomach, instantly pulverizing his internal organs.

Faced with a horror they could never defeat, the remaining warriors tried to run, scattering in all directions. But the ogre had their scent, and it chased them all down one by one, taking sadistic glee in each gruesome kill. The rest of the clan was not spared its fury: they, too, were hunted down. And once it was done—once every man, woman, and child had been stalked, caught, and killed—it began to feed.

Finally, its bloodlust and hunger both sated, the beast felt the pull of its master once again, calling it home.

Waking from his meditative trance, Orath focused his awareness on the ogre. The beast was thirty miles away, gorging itself on the remains of its victims. Steeling his will, the Minion reached out and gave a strong mental pull. The ogre tried to resist, fighting him in the hopes that the distance might allow it to break free.

But Orath had bested the creature once already; he had proved his dominance over it. The outcome of the struggle was inevitable, and after only a few seconds of defiance he sensed the ogre’s submission.

Lowering its head, it turned and headed back toward the Danaan forces, leaving behind the remains of its fresh kill for the advance patrols to stumble across the next day.

“W
HAT
’
S WRONG,
S
PY
?” Shalana asked, her words snapping Vaaler out of his silent stupor.

Two days had passed since Keegan had told him about the backlash. Things had been better between the two friends since then, but Vaaler was still spending most of his time alongside the tall, fair-skinned warrior. But he was careful around her now, watching his words in case some residual effect from the backlash caused him to say something stupid.

He was pretty sure Shalana had noticed the change, but she hadn’t asked him about his more guarded attitude toward her.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said by way of reply to her question. “I’m just thinking.”

“Spies shouldn’t think so much,” she noted.

“I’m just worried about what will happen when we reach the Conclave,” Vaaler lied. “What if the other clans don’t like your bringing Outlanders with you?”

“Norr won’t let anything happen to you, Spy,” she promised. “Neither will I,” she added with a playful wink.

Vaaler smiled. At first he’d been drawn to Shalana because he felt sorry for her.
Or was it the backlash that drove you to her?
Whatever the reasons behind his initial interest, he realized he had actually grown to like her. She was smart and funny and self-assured, despite losing her title as chief.

In some ways, she reminded him of the young women he’d served with in the patrols. The Danaan women were thinner and smaller—and a few years younger—but, like Shalana, they were fit and strong and blessed with a natural athletic grace.

And she’s attractive, too
.

Shalana’s features were sharp but symmetrical, and he found the contrast between her pale skin and her striking blue eyes exotic and intriguing.

He was pretty sure she liked him, too. She seemed comfortable around him, and he thought she actually enjoyed his company during their long trek.

Or maybe she’s just happy someone will talk to her even if he’s an Outlander
.

There was another possible explanation, but it was one Vaaler didn’t want to dwell on. He’d been on the verge of telling Shalana about the curse just before Keegan had arrived and told him about the backlash. Vaaler hadn’t given away their secret, but he was pretty sure the questions he’d been asking had raised Shalana’s suspicions.