The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (44 page)

Six of the creatures threw themselves at the three humans, snarling and spitting. Scythe, in the unusual situation of facing an opponent even smaller than herself, abandoned her usual helter-skelter tactics and held her ground to meet the charge head-on. She used her blades to slap away the swiping claws of the first beast then drove her knives deep into the fur-covered belly and sliced it open. The corpse fell at her feet, a wispy cloud of steam rising from the wound as warm blood met the cold air.

Jerrod employed a similarly direct method, driving his foot straight forward in a front kick that caved in the face of the nearest yeti before it was close enough to use its claws.

But it was Norr who truly blunted the assault. Instead of standing
to meet the charge, he stepped forward, Daemron’s blade carving a wide arc in front of him. The front stroke decapitated one yeti and chopped another in half diagonally from shoulder to hip. The backswing took out two more with similar ease.

“Fall back!” Jerrod shouted, and the three of them scampered backward through the pass.

They got around the next bend before another five yeti reached them. Three came straight for them, but the other two scampered up the sides of the pass, their claws easily finding purchase on the sheer vertical surface. In seconds they were thirty feet up, high above the heads of the humans on the ground. But instead of attacking from above, they kept on going, heading for the exit of the Serpent’s Tongue and the unconscious young man just beyond.

“Keegan!” Jerrod shouted, wheeling off in pursuit.

“Go help him,” Norr shouted at Scythe. “I can hold the pass!”

Scuttling along the wall the yeti were fast, but Jerrod was still able to run them down. He caught them just as they reached the end of the pass, and when they dropped back to the ground he was waiting.

A quick flurry of punches broke the ribs of one, driving a splinter of bone into its heart as it crumpled in a heap. The other leapt on Jerrod’s back and sunk its teeth into his shoulder as he targeted its companion, but couldn’t pull out fast enough to keep the monk from seizing it by the fur. He dropped to the ground, twisting so that his weight came down on top of the yeti, momentarily stunning it. Then he spun so that his feet were facing the other way and scissored his legs around the yeti’s head. Squeezing with his knees and arching his back, he snapped the beast’s neck.

As he sprang to his feet three more yeti appeared; like their brethren they had gone up and over Norr rather than face the big
man’s wrath head-on. But Scythe was hot on their heels, and she dropped two with her blades in the same amount of time it took Jerrod to eliminate the third.

The battle had drawn them past the mouth of the pass and out onto the plateau beyond. Peeking back into the Serpent’s Tongue, Jerrod saw Norr slowly making his way toward them in a fighting retreat under the crush of the relentless assault. He was drenched in blood though almost none of it was his own. Daemron’s Sword was a blur of motion, even to Jerrod’s mystical Sight, raining death down upon the enemy. But though scores were falling, hundreds more pressed forward, clogging the pass with their numbers. Several dozen had taken to the walls, crawling above Norr’s reach and past him like a swarm of insects about to be disgorged onto the plain.

The barbarian glanced back over his shoulder and in his gaze Jerrod could see what he meant to do.

“Norr!” Scythe screamed as she turned and saw him surrounded on all sides—front, back, and above—by the gibbering, laughing yeti.

She took a step toward him, but fell forward as Jerrod dropped her from behind with a quick blow to the back of her knee. The strike wasn’t meant to injure; it was only meant to slow her down.

At the same time Norr raised Daemron’s Sword high above his head then chopped down into the side of the pass. The rock exploded where the blade hit, sending a cloud of debris raining down and a thunderous boom echoing through the pass.

Norr struck a second time, ignoring the enemies all around him, releasing the power of Old Magic. The noise that followed was so loud it caused the earth to tremble, and instead of a cloud of shattered rock the blow unleashed a shower of bright red sparks. The reverberations shook the entire mountain, bringing down a deluge of ice and stone as the walls of the pass began to crumble.
The climbing yeti stopped their advance, clutching desperately to their perches to keep from being dislodged.

Scythe was back on her knees, but instead of turning on Jerrod she stared in horror at the man she loved. For the third time Norr raised the blade and brought it crashing down into the rock. A brilliant flash of crimson exploded out and a wide fissure erupted in the stone as it split. The crack raced up the side of the rock face, spiderwebbing outward with a high-pitched, earsplitting shriek that sent the yeti into a frenzied panic.

“No!” Scythe screamed as Norr turned toward them and threw Daemron’s Sword.

It hurtled toward them, spinning end over end before landing tip down in the snow a few feet away. And then, with a great roar, the entire pass collapsed on itself, burying Norr and the entire yeti army under an avalanche of rock and snow.

D
ESPITE BEING TRAPPED
inside the Crown, Rexol saw everything. Far more than Cassandra, at least. For even though his perceptions were limited to the people and places close to her, the young woman was blinded by the exhaustion and terror of her desperate flight.

Distracted by their slaughter of the Inquisitors, the Crawling Twins had once again fallen behind. Even the Minions weren’t fast enough to keep up with Cassandra on horseback. But horses needed to eat and sleep; they grew tired after days of endless travel. The abominations chasing them did not.

To keep ahead of them, Cassandra had gone without sleep for days. She’d switched her horse twice, but the mount she was on now was already starting to tire. And still the Crawling Twins were coming.

Cassandra had given in to her most primal fears, and Rexol knew he was partly to blame. The spell he’d used to drive the Twins into a frenzy so they’d attack the Inquisitors had affected the young woman as well. There was still a powerful connection between her and her former Master, and he had inadvertently sent her into a prolonged state of almost mindless panic.

At first, Rexol had thought this might make her easier to control. He’d tried to convince her to place the Crown atop her head, inserting his own words and ideas into her mind. But the fear
response he’d triggered made her instinctively reject the foreign presence, her consciousness fleeing from him just as her body fled from the Twins.

Yet some part of her was still rational and sane. She was still heading toward Callastan. And she was still careful to give a wide berth to towns and villages when possible, lest she unwittingly throw more innocent victims into the path of the Minions. And little by little, her sanity was returning.

How long until she realizes Yasmin has begun another Purge?
he wondered.

Through Cassandra’s senses, he’d smelled the oily scent of burning flesh as she crept past villages in the dead of night. He’d heard the crackling of massive bonfires. And he’d noticed a distinct lack of any other Chaos users once they entered the Southlands.

Like calls to like. I should be able to sense them—the echo of briar witches casting spells in their camps outside town, or the faint stirrings of a court mage enacting a ritual to bring good luck to a wealthy patron’s latest business venture
.

Rexol had always looked on such people with contempt and scorn; they were not true wizards. What they could do barely counted as magic in his eyes. But despite the frailty of their power, he’d always felt their presence in the background. The touch of Chaos was unmistakable and hard to ignore. Now, however, those with any kind of power had gone into hiding. Any magic they used would only be to hide their true nature from the Order’s Inquisitors.

Perhaps this is a good thing
, Rexol realized.

If the Order was busy hunting down rogue Chaos users, they wouldn’t be looking for Cassandra. And average folk would be less likely to approach or even speak about a lone woman riding through little-used paths and trails—despite what the Order believed, most people would rather not expose others to the wrath of the Inquisitors.

If Yasmin was too busy with her own petty political wars to interfere in what truly mattered, Cassandra might actually make it to Callastan without getting discovered. Though what would happen once they reached the city even Rexol couldn’t guess.

Vaaler could see the exhaustion on the faces of the clan warriors as he slopped food into their bowls. It had become a permanent feature, not just for the ones coming back from the battlefield, but also those heading out to fight again.

For days they had been engaged in an endless series of hit-and-run battles with the Danaan, rotating their warriors in and out in a desperate attempt to halt the enemy progress before they reached the massive refugee camp at the Giant’s Maw. But nothing they did seemed to slow their progress.

The Danaan army had changed tactics after the first battle, abandoning the widespread patrols and moving as a single, tightly bunched unit that marched inexorably forward, day after day. It quickly became clear they were following the trail of the refugees, plotting a direct course for the Giant’s Maw. There was no subtlety or tactical genius in this decision, and at first Vaaler thought the enemy was making a critical mistake. He knew exactly where the Danaan were headed, and—given their near-constant rate of progress—he knew exactly how long it would take for them to reach any given point along that journey.

Without having to worry about enemy patrols scouting ahead, the clans were able to set devastating ambushes, carefully choosing the perfect terrain at various points along the route and setting up their warriors in precise locations. Each of these traps had been an incredible success, with Danaan casualties outnumbering those of the clans by nearly five to one. But still the enemy refused to change course.

The Danaan were only a few days’ march away from the Giant’s Maw, and their numbers were still too many for the clans to meet in a full-on battle. So Shalana had redoubled their efforts, sending her troops out in rotating wave after wave. Each group was only able to grab a few hours’ rest before having to rejoin the fight, and the relentless battles were taking their toll.

Had they been fighting any ordinary foe, they would have broken the Danaan ranks and routed them long ago. But no matter how he tried, Vaaler couldn’t think of a way to overcome the ogre. Each time the clans began to gain the upper hand on the battlefield, the beast would come loping over and single-handedly turn the tide. So many had fallen to the beast in the first few encounters that the clans were now instructed to retreat at first sight rather than attempt to engage the slime-covered monster.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder as he continued to ladle thin stew into the bowls of the endless line of hungry, weary soldiers.

“Shalana is back,” the young man told him. “I can do this if you want to see her.”

Vaaler nodded his thanks and abandoned his post. He still couldn’t bring himself to fight his own people; he didn’t know if he could look them in the eye as he spilled their blood. So he had taken to supporting the warriors in other ways besides offering tactical advice to Shalana and her thane-chiefs. He helped with the food; he helped set up and take down the mobile camp they used as their staging operation; he helped haul the supply sleds to each new location.

But I won’t fight for them. Do they resent me for that?

He found Shalana huddled by a peat fire, warming herself with the flame. Seeing Vaaler, she motioned him over. Reaching her side, he saw that her eyes were sunken. Her face and clothes were caked with dirt and grime. She smelled of sweat, blood, and death.

“How many this time?” he asked as he sat down beside her.

“Forty on our side before the ogre came and we scattered. A few hundred on their side.”

“They can’t go on like this much longer,” Vaaler said, shaking his head. “Not with those kinds of losses. Not with winter coming and no supplies.

“They can,” Shalana answered sadly. “Even with their losses, they still outnumber us more than two to one. Without the ogre we might have a chance, but with that creature in their ranks …”

She trailed off, not saying what they both knew.

“Maybe Norr and Hadawas will bring back the Sword,” Vaaler said, though he knew Shalana still doubted the Talisman’s existence.

“I realize why so many of the rank and file cling to that ridiculous idea,” she whispered. “In the absence of all hope even a fool’s tale was welcome.”

“What other choice is there?” Vaaler asked.

“The Giant’s Maw borders the mountains at the edge of the world. We could tell Roggen to start leading the refugees up into the peaks. They could hide up there for weeks.”

“That only means they will starve or freeze before the enemy slaughters them,” Vaaler noted.

Shalana sighed.

“After our first victory, I truly thought we could win this war,” she said.

“So did I,” Vaaler admitted.

“I thought the Danaan would turn back by now,” he said, his voice rising with anger. “I don’t understand how the Queen can keep driving them forward with so many dying each day!”

“She is bent on revenge,” Shalana said simply. “It poisons our hearts and minds. It makes us do things that make no sense.”

“She wants to punish me,” Vaaler said, bowing his head. “I betrayed
my people. My own flesh and blood. Maybe if I surrender, they will turn back.”

“You know that’s not true,” Shalana told him. “If it was, you’d have already done it. I know you.”

Vaaler expected her to say something like, “Don’t blame yourself,” but she didn’t bother to waste her words. She understood platitudes couldn’t heal the complicated mixture of guilt, anger, and shame that churned inside him. Instead, she just sat with him, offering the comfort of her companionship.