The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (48 page)

She didn’t answer. She simply stared off into the distance, her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

Keegan sighed. He’d hoped after her emotional release last night she’d be feeling better. But she seemed to have slipped back into her catatonic state.

“Come on, Scythe,” he said, standing up. “It’s time to go.”

She didn’t move. Keegan looked over at Jerrod, who only stared back without expression. He reached down and gently slid his arms under hers, then tried to lift her up. It was like trying to move deadweight, made even more awkward by his missing hand, and he only raised her a few inches before his grip slipped and she fell back hard to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Scythe,” Keegan gasped, but she didn’t even seem to notice.

Without acknowledging his efforts or his presence, she readjusted herself until she was back in the exact same position as before.

Keegan walked back over to Jerrod.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the monk told him. “We go on without her.”

“We can’t just leave her sitting there in the snow!” Keegan exclaimed. “She’ll die out here!”

“Obviously that is what she wants.”

Keegan shook his head. “Scythe’s a fighter. She’s hurt. Damaged. But she wouldn’t ever give up. And I won’t give up on her!”

He expected Jerrod to argue with him, but the monk didn’t reply. Instead, he turned his head in the direction of a small hill in the distance.

“Someone is coming.”

A few seconds later a figure emerged from behind the mound. Bent over nearly double, it moved toward them with slow, shuffling
steps. As it drew closer, Keegan finally recognized who it was.

“Hadawas?” he called out, his mind boggled by the mystery of how their guide had somehow caught up with them.

“That’s not Hadawas,” Jerrod said, raising Daemron’s Sword.

The old man suddenly stood up straight, laughing. But it sounded more like a woman; high-pitched and shrill.

No, not a woman. A bird!

The figure shimmered, the illusion wrapped around it falling away like pieces of broken glass to reveal a creature Keegan had seen in his nightmares of the Monastery being destroyed. Its skin was black and smooth, and it had the body of a lean, muscular woman. But its hands were claws, it had massive black wings growing from its back, and the head resembled that of some monstrous bird of prey.

Parting its hooked beak, the Minion spoke.

“I am Raven,” it squawked, its female voice sharp and crackling with power. “You have taken what rightfully belongs to my master. Surrender the Talismans to me and you shall live!”

The compulsion of her words was so strong, Keegan took a half step forward before Jerrod stopped him by seizing his arm, breaking the spell.

“The Ring,” the monk hissed. “Put it on!”

As he reached for the chain around his neck, Jerrod charged the creature. Raven threw back her head and lifted her arms to the sky, shrieking out arcane words that made Keegan’s skin crawl.

In response, twin pillars of green fire came shooting down toward them from above. Jerrod dove to the side, avoiding the flames. Keegan—reacting instinctively—called on Chaos to save himself. He was instantly bathed in a soft blue glow, but he wasn’t wearing the Ring yet, and he wasn’t strong enough to ward off the Minion’s magic.

The green flames devoured the blue barrier and engulfed him.
He screamed and collapsed to the ground as his flesh bubbled and blistered from the heat. And then the flames vanished as Jerrod fell on Raven, Daemron’s sword a whirling blur of glowing red steel.

Keegan fell forward, the cool snow offering little relief to the hideous burns covering his flesh. He lifted his head to see Raven and Jerrod locked in a vicious battle, both combatants moving so quickly it was impossible for his mind to process the action.

A fresh wave of pain hit him, so intense he thought he would black out. Knowing he was going into shock from his injuries, he managed to roll onto his side so that he could see Scythe.

She hadn’t moved at all, completely oblivious to the battle raging only fifty feet away. He tried to call out to her, but his burned lips and cracked, swollen tongue made the words stick in his throat. And then Keegan’s eyelids fluttered, and the world went black.

Vaaler stood tall among the ranks of the clan warriors as dawn peeked over the mountains that made up the Giant’s Maw. Like the others, he was clad in a haphazard assortment of hides and furs—a sharp contrast to the cured-leather vests and uniforms of the enemy.

The clans were arranged in a long, loosely bunched line a dozen rows deep: a wall of defenders determined to hold back the enemy from the refugee camp behind them for as long as possible. True to her vow, Shalana was in the front, immediately to Vaaler’s left. Whatever happened today, whenever and however they met their end, they had both vowed to face it side by side.

As the sunlight crept across the battlefield, he heard a rising roar of anticipation from the gathered Danaan troops. But the warriors standing with Vaaler were silent.

They’re used to fighting for honor and glory. But this is different. This is about survival, plain and simple. There is nothing noble in what we do
here, and there will be no songs sung or legends told of what happens today
.

A horn blew, the sound quickly echoed by a dozen others. And the Danaan surged forward. Shalana raised her spear and let loose a fierce battle cry as she, Vaaler, and the united forces of all the clans charged ahead to meet the enemy.

Vaaler had just enough time to realize the ogre hadn’t joined the rush; the beast was standing still as stone near the back of the Danaan lines. But before he could wonder about it, the two armies met with a deafening crash, and everything descended into madness.

Armed with his rapier, Vaaler cut and jabbed at his enemies, moving nimbly among the soldiers from both sides chopping, hacking, slashing, and stabbing furiously at each other all around him. In the confusion he couldn’t recognize the faces of friend or foe; there was too much happening too quickly for his mind to process such minute details. But even in the heat of battle, he was still aware of Shalana beside him, laying foe after foe low with her deadly spear.

The tide of battle swept them forward as there was a momentary break in the Danaan lines, and Vaaler and the others poured through. But reinforcements arrived almost immediately to seal the breach, and the clans were forced to fall back again.

Someone slammed into Vaaler from behind; in the crush of bodies he didn’t know if it was friend or foe. The impact sent him staggering toward a waiting Danaan soldier, and Vaaler threw himself face-first to the ground to avoid being gutted by a wild slash of his enemy’s blade. He rolled onto his back and thrust upward, the point of his rapier slipping through a seam between the jerkin and belt of the other man and plunging deep into his belly.

Clutching at his mortal wound, he toppled backward, and both of them were overrun by the mayhem as the ebb and flow of
battle washed over them. Soldiers from both sides trampled them down, heavy boots kicking and stomping heedlessly as desperate men and women fought for purchase on the uneven ground.

Twice Vaaler managed to get to his hands and knees, only to be knocked down again each time. A toe caught him in the ribs, a heel struck the side of his head, leaving him woozy and disoriented. For a second the world swam in an ocean of silver stars.

Vaaler bit down hard on his tongue, the pain jolting him back to consciousness just in time to see a heavy axe swinging down toward him. He rolled to the side and the head buried itself deep in the ground. But before he could rise the man pulled out a short, thick sword and lunged toward his prone and helpless foe.

Instead of feeling the cold steel wedging itself between his ribs, however, Vaaler heard a heavy thud and the fatal blow went askew, knocked off line by the feathered spear protruding from the man’s sternum.

As the Danaan toppled lifeless to the ground, Shalana yanked Vaaler back to his feet. Without saying a word, she wrapped her hands around the shaft of her spear, braced her foot on the corpse, and hauled her weapon free.

Vaaler looked around frantically, expecting to be assailed on all sides by more of the enemy. But he and Shalana were standing alone in a small pocket of calm.

Eye of the storm
, he thought, as the battle continued to rage unchecked all around them. And then he heard a vile, sickening sound rising up over the din of battle: a wet, ravenous, rumbling growl.

“Run!” Shalana screamed, her eyes going wide with fear.

But it was too late. The monster had spotted them, fixing its baleful gaze on the pair that stood momentarily untouched by the fray. The ogre had joined the battle, and it was coming for them.
The walls that imprisoned her couldn’t block Cassandra’s Sight from sensing dawn as it rose over Callastan. She’d hoped someone would come to see her at first light, someone she could reason with. Someone she could convince to let her out of her cell before the Crawling Twins came.

But morning stretched to afternoon, and she realized she would have to find another way out of the cell.

“I need to speak to someone!” she shouted, once again pounding her fist on the door. “Please—lives are at stake!”

She knew the guards were out there; she could see them in a room at the end of the hall, three men seated around a table playing cards while pointedly ignoring the cries of their prisoner.

It’s too late
, Rexol told her.
The Crawling Twins have come
.

She sensed them in the same instant, their misshapen forms scuttling through an alley less than a block away.

“Please!” she screamed. “Please! I’m begging you!”

With a muttered curse one of the men threw his cards onto the table and got to his feet. He grabbed a key from a rack on the wall and began to walk down the hall toward her cell. Whether he intended to listen to her or simply unlock her cell to administer a beating she never found out.

The door to the street exploded as he walked past, the heavy wood blasted from its hinges with enough force to pin the unfortunate guard against the opposite wall, crushing the life from him.

The Crawling Twins spilled in, the blue-skinned one turning left and rushing toward the guards, the red turning right and coming for Cassandra. Memories of the Inquisitors’ bloody slaughter filled her head; images of blood and gore that made her want to throw up caused her to start trembling in terror.

The Crown!
Rexol shouted in her head.
Use the Crown!

The red Twin paused outside her door, crouched low on all fours. Its limbs jutted out at strange angles as it rocked from side to side, then tilted back its snout to sniff the air. Behind it, the blue
Twin had already eviscerated the guards, pausing just long enough to lap up a small pool of the freshly spilled blood before joining the other outside her door.

The Crown! Do it now, or the Minions will take the Talisman for the Slayer!

Cassandra stepped to the side as one of the Twins smashed open the door to her cell with a single kick. As the door hurtled across the room to splinter against the wall, she was already pulling the artifact she had faithfully carried since she’d fled the Monastery from its sack. As the first Twin stepped through the door, she placed the Crown atop her head.

Cassandra’s mind reeled as the power of the ancient Talisman poured into her, freezing time and all existence. Fueled by Chaos, her Sight exploded into omniscience, her awareness instantly stretching out to every corner of the mortal world, taking in every sight, sound, and even smell. Her consciousness recoiled as the thoughts of every living man, woman, and child bombarded her simultaneously. She was everywhere; she was everything. And the tiny, insignificant part of her being that was Cassandra was lost in the glory of infinity.

R
EXOL WAS READY
and waiting as Cassandra’s essence and identity were overwhelmed by the Crown. The same had happened the first time he dared to use the Talisman; it had nearly destroyed him. But he was stronger now. Wiser.

Being imprisoned inside the Crown had changed him in ways far greater than the loss of his physical form. He had become attuned to the Old Magic used to forge it in ways even the great mages who predated the Cataclysm could not fathom. He had prepared for this moment; he’d yearned for it. And when Cassandra faltered, Rexol seized control of not just her mind but also her body.

It all happened instantly; at the speed of thought while the world outside crept along so, so slowly. In the entire time it took for Cassandra to lose her battle against oblivion and Rexol to seize control, the first of the Crawling Twins had only passed halfway through the door of her cell.

The Chaos was building, gathering so fast inside Cassandra’s body that her flesh began to pulse and crack as the magical fire threatened to consume her mortal shell as it had consumed Rexol’s. But this time the wizard was prepared, and instead of trying to contain and control the unstemmable tide, he let it pass through him and unleashed it on the mortal world.

Old Magic erupted like a geyser from Cassandra’s body, an explosion
of pure Chaos that sent ripples across the sky to every corner of the mortal world.

Dark purple clouds rolled in from the west, blotting out the cold winter sun that shone down on the empty, snow-covered plateau high among the mountain peaks. Bolts of silver lightning arced back and forth across the sky and deafening cracks of thunder echoed over the land. For several seconds the fury of the storm raged, and then it was gone, vanishing as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared.

Entombed beneath the earth, the Guardian felt the power of Chaos as it swept through. His eyes snapped open as he shook off his hibernating slumber, invigorated by the touch of Old Magic.

With a roar, he rose to his full height and thrust his fists toward the unseen sky, bursting through the avalanche of rock and ice that had buried him in the cave. A shower of debris rained down on the newly fallen snow as the surface of the ground exploded, leaving a gaping wound of a crater.