“Until we reach the farms, there is nothing else,” Jerrod reminded him. “And if you don’t eat to keep your strength up, one of us will end up having to carry you.”
Realizing it was pointless to argue, Keegan took the jerky and grudgingly choked it down. The rest of the meal passed in silence and they were soon on their way again, but he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to worry about Scythe.
If you’re too much of a coward to speak with her about Norr, maybe you can convince Jerrod to try.
When darkness fell they bedded down for the night. As usual, Jerrod took the first watch. But instead of letting himself drift off to sleep, Keegan waited until he heard Scythe snoring softly. Then he quietly slipped out of the blankets he had wrapped himself in, stood up, and signaled for the monk to follow him a short way off from the camp.
Once they were out of earshot, the young mage said, “I’m worried about Scythe.”
“Everyone copes with grief in their own way,” Jerrod assured him, brushing aside his concern.
“I don’t think she is coping,” Keegan replied. “She’s just blindly following along like some kind of pack mule. It’s like part of her shut down.”
“Perhaps Norr’s sacrifice made her understand the true value of our mission,” the monk offered. “Or maybe she felt something when she used the Sword to kill Raven, and she finally accepts the role she has to play. Maybe she no longer protests everything we do because she has decided to embrace her destiny as one of the three saviors.”
I doubt that, Keegan thought. But maybe there was an opportunity to use Jerrod’s beliefs to his advantage.
“What if she can’t play that role in her current state?” Keegan wondered aloud. “After Raven’s death, you said the flames of Chaos burn inside her. It’s what makes Scythe who she is: spontaneous, argumentative, confrontational. But she’s not like that anymore. What if that fire inside her has gone out?”
Jerrod hesitated, then shook his head. “Chaos cannot so easily be extinguished. It is part of her core, the very essence of her being. The Chaos in her blood defines her, just as it defines you.” After a brief pause, he added, “And Cassandra, too, no doubt.”
“I still think you should talk to Scythe,” Keegan pressed. “If we can just get her to open up about what happened to Norr, maybe she’ll go back to her old self.”
“Such a conversation could have consequences we are not prepared to deal with,” the monk replied carefully.
“What are you talking about?”
“Backlash,” he said, his voice dropping into a low whisper. “You used the Ring to save us from the yeti horde. Maybe the backlash of the Chaos you unleashed is what caused Norr’s death.”
The idea wasn’t new to Keegan; it’s one he had struggled with himself. The thought that he might be indirectly responsible for what happened to Norr only intensified his guilt over his feelings for Scythe. But there was no way to be certain he was to blame, and he had already decided he wasn’t going to take on the extra burden.
“If I hadn’t done that, we’d all be dead,” Keegan reminded him.
“I agree. But will Scythe see it that way? If we delve into this, she might decide you are to blame for Norr’s death.”
“Even if it was my fault,” Keegan said, the words coming grudgingly to his lips, “Scythe wouldn’t blame me. She’s smart enough to understand it was an accident.”
“Was it?” Jerrod asked.
Keegan was too stunned by the accusation to answer.
“Your feelings for Scythe are obvious enough,” the monk continued. “And your power is growing. Every time you’ve used the Ring, you’ve become stronger. More able to control and direct the Chaos it unleashes.
“What if your jealousy of Norr made you subconsciously direct the backlash in his direction?”
“That’s…that’s not even possible,” Keegan stammered, shaking his head. “Nobody can control backlash. That’s why it’s so dangerous.”
“Perhaps. But you have already done many things that no other has accomplished.”
“I didn’t cause Norr’s death,” Keegan declared. “Not on purpose, at least.”
“It doesn’t matter if you believe that,” Jerrod reminded him. “Or even if I believe it. It only matters if Scythe believes it.
“If we ask her about Norr, she might start looking for reasons he is gone. She might stumble down this same road of thinking. She might decide you are to blame. And she might decide you must pay with your life.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” Keegan said, though he didn’t sound as confident as he’d hoped.
“It’s a chance I’m not willing to take,” Jerrod concluded. “Scythe is strong; I believe her spirit will return in time.”
“Do we really have the luxury to just wait and see?” Keegan asked, still not willing to let it rest.
Jerrod considered the matter for several seconds before replying.
“You may be right,” he conceded. “If Scythe has not shown any change or improvement in the next few days, I will speak to her.”
Satisfied, Keegan nodded his thanks.
“Get some sleep,” the monk said. “Tomorrow might be a long day.”
It didn’t take more than a few minutes from when Keegan bedded down before he was snoring soundly.
—
Scythe was careful to keep her breathing steady as Keegan got up and went to speak to Jerrod, maintaining the illusion that she was sleeping peacefully. She wasn’t tired; since taking up the Sword, she only needed an hour of sleep each night. But she’d rather pretend to be unconscious than have to deal with her traveling companions right now.
On the few occasions when she did sleep, she dreamed of Norr. Her mind kept taking her back to a time when he was still alive, to their days in Praeton, mostly. Scythe had often found the small village mind-numbingly dull, but now she longed for its simple pleasures. Even the boredom would be bearable if Norr were with her.
But he’s not. He’s gone.
Every time she woke up, there was a brief moment when she expected to roll over and see Norr snoring beside her. And then reality would come crashing in, and the pain would hit her, hard and fresh. In some small way, it felt like he was dying over and over again.
Scythe had never given much thought to what happened to a person after death. Many of the new religions spoke of some other world where the deceased would be reunited with those they loved in some kind of never-ending paradise. A nice thought, but one she found far too convenient to be credible.
The Order preached that those who died would become one with the Chaos Sea, the essence that ignited the spark of life slipping away to rejoin the universal whole from which the Old Gods themselves had been born. There was something appealing in that theory—death as a release from everything, including your own sense of existence. And maybe someday she’d embrace such a fate. But for now she still welcomed the pain of Norr’s memory. It was all she had left of him, and she wasn’t about to give that up for eternal oblivion quite yet.
She continued to lie perfectly still as Keegan came back and lay down on the other side of the smoldering peat fire, maintaining the ruse until the young man started snoring softly. Despite their precautions, she’d overheard every word he and Jerrod had said about her; thanks to the Sword, all her senses had been unnaturally heightened.
The idea that Norr’s death was due to backlash from Keegan’s spell was nothing new to her. But she hadn’t considered the possibility that Keegan had intentionally directed the backlash at her lover. Even if he had, though, it didn’t change anything.
Norr had given his life because he truly believed Keegan was some kind of savior. Looking at him now, it was hard to see. He was thin to the point of being frail. His black hair and dark, sunken eyes contrasted with his skin to make it look white as the snow that surrounded them; his cheeks were so smooth and hairless that he looked more like a boy than a real man.
And he only has one hand!
Despite all this, however, Scythe couldn’t allow herself to have any doubts about his destiny. Or hers. She’d seen Keegan’s power, but that wasn’t what sustained her faith. The only way Norr’s death made any sense, the only way it had any meaning or purpose at all, was if Jerrod was right. For the sake of Norr’s memory, Scythe was willing to buy into the mad monk’s prophecy, no matter how many times he changed the details around. She was determined to see this through to the end, no matter what the cost.
I’ll follow you to Callastan while you try to convince Cassandra to join us. If she refuses, I’ll cut her down with the Sword and put the Crown on my own head if that’s what it takes.
And in the end, if you decide the only way to save the world is for me and Keegan to sacrifice ourselves, then that’s what’s going to happen. And if Keegan isn’t willing to pay that price, I’ll be happy to send him on his way.
Norr had been the noblest, most generous, kindest man she had ever known, and now he was gone. He was a better person than she was; he was better than any of them. If he had to die for the cause, then why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t Keegan? Why shouldn’t anybody—or everybody—else have to die, too?
She was no prophet; even armed with the Sword she hadn’t started having cryptic dreams or visions. At night all she saw were memories of a time when Norr was still alive. But somehow she knew this already tragic quest wouldn’t end without more bloodshed. And she was willing, even eager, to watch the crimson rivers flow.
VAALER AND SHALANA were among the earliest to arrive for the scheduled meeting of the clan chiefs; only Roggen was there before them. Vaaler wasn’t surprised; the newly acclaimed leader of the Sun Blades was usually the first one there.
The meeting hall was a temporary construction of hides stretched over a bone framework in the middle of the various tribal camps scattered around the Giant’s Maw. There was no hearth to warm the interior; inside it was cold enough that Vaaler could see his breath. But at least the structure kept out the wind and provided shelter from the seemingly constant snowfall.
Roggen stood in the far corner of the tent, still and calm and apparently oblivious to the cold. He was clad in typical Eastern garb: high, heavy boots; a knee-length hide skirt; and a sleeveless vest that left his muscular arms bare. His thick black beard and long, wild hair gave him a brutish appearance, but Vaaler knew there was a refined intelligence behind his rough exterior.
Shalana and Vaaler were similarly dressed, though Vaaler had also thrown a cloak of sewn fur pelts over his shoulders to try to stay warm. Shalana’s pale skin and auburn hair—bound in a long braid that hung over the front of her right shoulder—were common among the clans, but Vaaler would never have been mistaken for a native, even if he wasn’t always wearing extra layers against the cold. Although as tall as Shalana, he was thin and wiry—a stark contrast to the burly, barrel-chested physique so common in the East. His skin, like all of the Danaan, had a faint greenish brown hue, and despite not shaving for weeks, his cheeks were still bare save for a wispy line of hair along the length of his jaw.
And yet, Vaaler felt more at home among these people than he ever had among his own kind. Roggen and the other chiefs accepted and respected him, and if anyone resented his relationship with Shalana, they were smart enough not to say anything around him…or her.
“Are you certain about this?” Roggen asked, coming over to clasp Shalana’s forearm by way of greeting.
“You sound like you’re expecting trouble,” Vaaler noted.
“Not everyone will be pleased with what you have to say.”
“It needs to be said,” Shalana insisted, and Roggen nodded his agreement.
This was not the first meeting of the clan chiefs since the final battle against the Danaan, though Vaaler knew this one would not be like the others. In the week since the enemy had been routed, the leaders of all the clans had met every evening to share news and make plans for what should be done next. The newly formed alliances between former rivals were still strong, and so far they had been able to act with consensus in the aftermath of their costly victory.
There’s still a common enemy that wants to wipe them out. Like the Danaan, the brutal winter has united the chiefs.
The massive casualties suffered during the campaign against Vaaler’s former people had taken a harsh toll on every clan. Supplies were low, as was the number of able-bodied men and women capable of scouring the surrounding plains and nearby peaks for game. Even Terramon had agreed they should all work together and try to ride out the winter as a group here in the Giant’s Maw.
It shows how desperate our situation is, Vaaler realized, when even Shalana’s father thinks cooperation is the only option.
One by one the other clan chiefs and their advisers began to arrive, slowly filling the makeshift tent, the heat of their bodies in the enclosed space gradually bringing the temperature up. Vaaler studied them carefully, trying to gauge their respective moods as they entered.
Most still looked to Shalana as their unofficial leader, a role she had seized—with Vaaler’s help—during the war against the Danaan. But as the focus of the chiefs switched from battle strategies and tactics to more mundane concerns, he’d begun to sense a subtle shift in their allegiance toward Roggen.
Shalana hadn’t tried to fight it; in fact, she was more than happy to concede the role to him. For the past decade, Roggen had effectively been in charge of the Sun Blades, the largest and most powerful clan in the Frozen East. While he had deferred to the venerable Hadawas on larger decisions, he had been the one overseeing the day-to-day lives of his people.
At her core, Shalana was a warrior. She knew how to fight and how to rally her thanes to her cause. But Roggen was far better equipped than she was to handle the logistics of finding food, treating the sick and wounded, and making more permanent shelters that could withstand the inevitable blizzards that would threaten to bury them in ice and snow. And if any disputes did arise among the chiefs, he was far more experienced in the subtle politics of leadership than she was.
The clans will be in good hands when we leave, Vaaler assured himself. Knowing that helped calm him somewhat though he still felt anxious about what was to come.
Beside him, Shalana gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
Is my nervousness so obvious? he wondered. Or does she just know me that well already?
“It’s time,” she whispered, releasing her grasp on his hand and stepping forward into the small circle that had naturally formed at the center of the crowd. Vaaler took a deep breath and silently wished his love luck in what was about to come.
—
Shalana let her eyes drift around the room before she spoke, taking in the twenty-odd faces. The assembled chiefs and a handful of their most trusted advisers—the recently united leaders of the Frozen East—waited patiently for her to begin. To her relief, she didn’t see her father among the crowd. Before she could begin, however, one more figure slipped in through the meeting hall’s entrance at the last second.
Terramon didn’t offer her any apology for being late. Without a word or a glance at any of the others, he bumped and shuffled his way toward the front of the assemblage. Shalana noted Vaaler shooting him a sour glance, and she sighed inwardly.
Despite no longer having any official title, her father was still recognized and respected—though not necessarily trusted or liked—by virtually all the clans. His presence at the meetings of the clan chiefs was a nod to his reputation though he didn’t always attend.
Of course he’s here tonight. He always has to make things difficult.
She had been hoping Terramon would skip this meeting; she suspected things would go much easier if he weren’t here. But there was no point in holding off; Vaaler was already worried they had waited too long.
“Welcome, my thane-chiefs,” Shalana called out once the audience had settled back down after her father’s late entrance. “I know you are all eager to hear the reports from the hunting parties we
have sent out. Soon enough I will turn the floor over to Roggen, who has been coordinating their efforts.
“But first,” she continued, “there is something we must tell you.”
She paused, and cast a quick glance back toward Vaaler, who nodded his encouragement.
“As you all know, Vaaler was vital in our victory over the Danaan invaders. Without him, none of us would be here right now.”
Her words elicited a spontaneous burst of cheers from the crowd, and she couldn’t help but smile. Vaaler was no longer an Outlander; he had become a hero to her people. Which made what she was about to say all the more difficult.
“But Vaaler didn’t come to the clans to warn us against the Treefolk. He, along with Norr and their companions, came to seek the aid of the Stone Spirits in something far greater.
“Long ago, a great evil rose up,” Shalana explained, “a tyrant named Daemron the Slayer. He unleashed the horrors of the Chaos Spawn, and caused a Cataclysm that nearly destroyed the world.
“Now, after centuries of banishment, the Slayer threatens to return. That is why Norr and Vaaler first came to us: They seek a way to defeat him once and for all.”
An awkward silence had fallen over the room as the thanes tried to wrap their heads around what she was telling them.
“The war against the Danaan is over,” she continued, plunging forward. “But there is another war that must still be fought. And the clans must still be a part of it.”
At first nobody spoke out though she could hear grumblings of confusion and discontent from the crowd. And then Terramon gave voice to what she knew many of the thanes were thinking.
“We have enough real problems to overcome without worrying about myths and legends,” her father declared.
“How can you say that after what happened on the battlefield?” Shalana demanded, looking to quash her father’s argument before others joined him. “You saw the Guardian give his life to save us! You know the legends are real. We’ve seen the proof.”
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