Rianna had been unconscious, her mind withdrawing into itself once Orath released his hold, unable to wake or respond. As a result, the war council—five of the Queen’s most trusted advisers—had invoked a state of regency so they could serve in her stead. As their first acts they had pardoned Andar, restored his position as High Sorcerer, and elected him as their leader. Even Lormilar, the man who had been named High Sorcerer after Andar had been deposed, voted for him.
They’re good people. They only want what is best for the Danaan.
Or maybe, a small part of Andar’s mind whispered, the direness of their situation had simply forced them to put aside any thoughts of political advancement or self-interest. Far too many Danaan had died in the final battle, but many more had been in danger of perishing during the long journey back to their homeland. The Frozen East had lived up to its name, as winter had buried the plains under snow and ice. Supplies had been critically low, and many of the troops who had survived the battle were badly wounded. Even those who were healthy had been exhausted and demoralized.
A bad turn in the weather would have devastated their ranks. A fierce blizzard could have reduced their numbers from thousands to hundreds. But by some miracle the weather held, and they had reached the borders of the North Forest with far fewer casualties than any of them expected.
By then the Queen had regained consciousness though she could only remember small bits and pieces of the last few weeks. Once she learned all that had happened, she had fully supported the council’s decisions and actions—proof enough for Andar that she was back in her right mind.
The rest of the council, however, were reluctant to surrender their powers back over to Rianna so soon. Given the Queen’s recent erratic behavior, Andar understood their hesitation. Fortunately, the Queen was more than willing to let them continue to rule, claiming her weakened state made it impossible for her to resume her role as monarch in a time of crisis.
But she can’t abdicate her responsibilities forever, Andar thought as he wound his way through the halls toward the Queen’s private chambers. The royal family had ruled in an unbroken line for seven centuries. They were a powerful symbol of Danaan unity, strength, and perseverance. If Rianna stepped down now—without an heir to take the throne—her people would be devastated.
He paused at the door of the Queen’s private chambers and knocked softly.
“Enter,” she called from within.
Andar couldn’t help but note how soft and frail she sounded—a sharp contrast to the confident, commanding voice she once possessed.
Inside, Rianna was sitting in her bed, propped up by several pillows behind her back.
“I bring news from the latest meeting of the Regent Council,” Andar told her.
She nodded, though from her expression he could tell she didn’t have much interest in what he had to say.
This is important! he wanted to shout, but he knew that wouldn’t help.
“Pranya’s spies in the Southlands are reporting that the Pontiff has begun another Purge.”
To Andar’s relief, the Queen’s eyes momentarily widened with interest.
“Will we be able to mount a defense if they come for us?” Rianna asked.
“It doesn’t appear it will come to that,” Andar reassured her. “The Order is focusing their efforts on Callastan. They are gathering an army to lay siege to the city.”
“Once Callastan falls, they may turn their attention to us,” Rianna warned.
“The Free Cities will stand with us, just as they did in the last Purge,” Andar insisted.
“Even after what happened in Torian?” Rianna asked. “Before he summoned the dragon that leveled Ferlhame, the Destroyer of Worlds rained Chaos fire down upon the entire city.”
“There are some in Torian who support the Order,” Andar admitted. “But many do not. The brutality of the Purge is not winning many converts to the Pontiff’s cause.”
Rianna nodded, and Andar wondered if she was recalling the tales from the last Purge, almost forty years ago. Seeing heretics burned alive at the stake in gruesome public executions could inspire obedience through fear, but it wouldn’t earn loyalty.
“Pranya said there are rumors that many of the soldiers and mercenaries who claim to be working for the Order are pillaging the farms and smaller villages of the Southlands,” Andar continued.
“There are always those who will use war as an excuse to unleash their worst instincts,” Rianna noted with a heavy sigh.
“This time it seems worse than normal. The Pontiff has done little to rein them in; many of the soldiers are running wild.
“It has gotten so bad that Pranya’s agents report that several of the Free Cities are considering sending out armed patrols to offer some protection to the surrounding villages.”
Andar paused, hoping Rianna would ask for more details. Instead, she simply closed her eyes and lay back against her pillows, as if the news he’d brought had exhausted her.
The High Sorcerer waited for a few moments, then turned to leave so the Queen could rest.
As he reached the door, she called out, “Has there been any news of Vaaler? Do we know if he survived the final battle?”
Her eyes were still closed, and from the Queen’s tone Andar couldn’t tell why she was asking. Vaaler had betrayed his mother and his people when he allied himself with the human wizard who had nearly destroyed Ferlhame. That betrayal was a large part of what had driven the Queen into the rage and madness that had led the Danaan people into the disastrous war against the Eastern clans.
Yet he knew Rianna well enough to understand that she also felt guilt and regret over what had happened. She had forced Vaaler’s hand by exiling him; she shared much of the blame for what had happened.
Do you want to hear that he’s dead so you can finally put this all behind you? Or are you hoping your son is somehow still alive?
Whatever her motivations, Andar didn’t have an answer.
“Once we realized the Barbarians weren’t pursuing us, Hexiff pulled all his scouts back into the main ranks,” the High Sorcerer told her. “We know the ogre eventually fell, but we know little else about what happened after we fled the battlefield.”
Several seconds of awkward silence passed as Andar waited to see if she would ask anything else about her son.
“I’m tired,” Rianna finally muttered. “I need to rest.”
“Of course, my Queen,” Andar replied, bowing his head slightly, then leaving the room and closing the door softly behind him.
—
Jerrod sensed the small farm in the distance before he saw it with his newly restored eyes, but just barely. His second sight was getting stronger, but it was still a shadow of what it had once been.
The distant farmhouse was a welcome sight; it gave him something to focus on besides the concerns Scythe had raised about Keegan. And it might give them a chance to restock their supplies. Water could be found easily enough; here on the borderlands there was still a thin layer of snow on the ground they could easily melt whenever they were thirsty. But food was scarce, and they had run out of their last rations yesterday.
Hopefully we can find something at the farm.
If the owners were generous, they might give them enough to continue on. If not, Jerrod had no reservations about taking what they needed. Hopefully this could be done without violence, but if it was necessary, blood would be spilled.
Our mission is too important. If some of the innocent must suffer for the greater good, it cannot be helped.
Ezra hadn’t taught him that; it sounded more like something Rexol would have said. But that didn’t make it any less true.
And maybe Ezra had always known it would come to this. He’d always warned Jerrod about the dangers of allying with a Chaos mage, but in the end he’d decided they had no other choice.
He knew that Scythe would support him if they had to take what they needed by force. With Keegan, however, he wasn’t so sure. Hopefully the yo
ung wizard would understand.
We’ve come too far to falter now. All we need is a few supplies, and we’ll be on our way.
As they drew closer to the farm, however, Jerrod realized that wasn’t likely to happen.
—
Keegan’s first reaction when he saw the distant farmhouse was one of relief: his empty stomach churned so hard in anticipation of a hot meal that it actually hurt. That emotion was quickly replaced by concern.
What if the farmer won’t give us food? Will Jerrod just take it? What if he has a family? What if they try to stop us? Will Jerrod hurt them? Will Scythe?
Deciding it was better to try to head off any trouble with a discussion before things escalated, Keegan broke the traveling trio’s silence.
“There’s a farm up ahead. Maybe we can bargain with the owner for something to eat.”
The sentiment was so blatantly obvious it sounded foolish even to his own ears, but the words were better than the eerie silence.
“We won’t have to worry about that,” Jerrod replied. “There is nobody living at the farm anymore.”
“You can sense that even from here?” Scythe asked, showing her first spark of interest in anything since the battle with Raven.
“Most of my Sight has returned,” the monk assured her.
“Good,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sooner or later we’re going to have to fight to keep moving forward. Nice to know you won’t be a liability.”
She didn’t say anything further, and Jerrod didn’t reply, leaving Keegan to bring the conversation back to the original topic.
“So the farm is abandoned?”
“Not by choice,” was Jerrod’s grim response.
Something in his tone prevented Keegan from asking any more questions. Scythe either sensed it, too, or she simply didn’t care to press for more information. As they drew closer, however, the explanation became clear: Someone had razed the place to the ground.
The charred remnants of a crop field marked the outer edge of the property. A handful of animal corpses—a cow, two pigs, and several chickens—lay rotting slowly in the cool winter air, their throats slit. The burned-out frame of what had once been a small wooden barn in the corner looked ready to collapse at any moment. The farmhouse had fared better, but only barely: The stone walls were scorched completely black, and the thatch roof had been burned completely away.
“Bandits?” Keegan wondered aloud as they continued moving forward.
Jerrod shook his head and pointed to the farthest edge of the property, where five tall wooden stakes jutted up from the ground. Around each was a pile of ash and spent charcoal. Strapped to the stakes by twisted metal wire were shapes that had once been human. Now they were almost unrecognizable: black, shapeless lumps of flesh and bone twisted by the intense heat that had taken their lives.
“I’ve seen this before,” the monk explained. “Yasmin has declared a Purge.”
They had stopped on the edge of the farm, Jerrod bringing them to the very edge of the slaughter but not taking them any farther.
“Why would the Order execute people out here in the middle of nowhere?” Keegan asked, still not piecing it all together.
“Don’t be so dense,” Scythe answered, though there was no real venom in her voice. “The family must have been harboring a Chaos user. Probably trying to hide a relative from the Inquisitors.”
“So the Order burned them alive?” Keegan exclaimed, his stomach rising.
“There is only one sentence for heresy,” Jerrod reminded him. “Anyone here would be guilty by mere association.”
Almost against his will, Keegan’s eyes focused on the charred remains lashed to the stakes. It was difficult to say for sure, but some of the figures looked smaller than the others.
“Even the Order wouldn’t execute children,” the young wizard muttered, hoping it was true.
“The children would be spared,” Jerrod agreed, much to Keegan’s relief. “The young ones, at least. But any over the age of twelve would have to renounce their parents and watch them burn, or suffer the same fate.”
“That’s barbaric,” Keegan muttered.
“It’s no worse than what we’ve done,” Scythe countered. “How many innocent victims have we left in our wake?”
Keegan didn’t like to think about what had happened at Ferlhame. Hundreds had died the night he’d awakened the dragon; of course he felt some sense of responsibility and guilt for what had happened. But this wasn’t the same thing.
“There’s a difference between accidentally causing harm in the heat of the moment and cold-blooded murder.”
“The victims are dead either way,” Scythe said with an indifferent shrug.
“We are not like the Order!” Keegan insisted. “We’re trying to save the world.”
“So are they,” Jerrod reminded him. “Though they walk the wrong path.”
“They’re the enemy!”
“No,” the monk said. “Daemron is our enemy. Do not lose sight of that. The Order is merely an obstacle in the way of what must be done to stop the Slayer’s return.”
“They’re trying to kill us!” Keegan reminded them both.
“They are merely following their beliefs with pure conviction,” Jerrod offered. “And we do the same. In truth, there is little difference between us. In other circumstances, their efforts would be almost admirable.”
Keegan couldn’t think of an immediate response, so he looked over to Scythe for support. In the past, she’d always been the one to challenge Jerrod’s fanaticism whenever he said something abhorrent. But she wasn’t part of the conversation anymore. Instead, her attention was wholly focused on the burned bodies tied to the stakes.
“This is not admirable,” Keegan finally spat out. “Whoever did this deserves to die!”
“A lot of people deserve to die,” Scythe muttered, not bothering to turn toward them as she spoke. “But not all of them will. And many who deserve to live will not.”
She didn’t say anything else, and in the ensuing silence Keegan could barely hold himself back from screaming at her.
Snap out if it, Scythe! This isn’t like you! This isn’t who you are! This isn’t who Norr wanted you to be!
Somehow, he held his tongue. Her lover’s death had caused her to shut down, to close herself off from the world. But it was hard to believe she wasn’t outraged by what had happened here, even if that outrage was buried beneath an ocean of numbing grief. Keegan had hoped this atrocity would trigger something in her—any kind of reaction would have been a welcome sign. But obviously she still needed more time. And shouting at her wasn’t likely to help.
“How long ago did this happen?” Keegan wanted to know.
“A day or two at most,” Jerrod guessed. “Judging by the decomposition of the livestock. But whoever was here is gone now.”
“Any idea why they left?” Scythe wondered.
“Their work here was done,” Jerrod simply replied. “It’s almost sundown,” the monk added. “I doubt we will find any provisions in the farmhouse, but the walls will give us some shelter from the wind and cold.”
“We’re not spending the night in this place,” Keegan declared.
“The Order is unlikely to return,” Jerrod assured him.
“I won’t sit down and rest in the house of an innocent family while their bodies are still smoking only a few feet away!”
“We don’t have time to bury them,” Scythe chimed in.
“If we press on, we are unlikely to come across another farm before dark,” Jerrod warned. “And the Order could still be patrolling the surrounding area. Finding another safe place to stop could be difficult.”
“Then we keep walking through the night,” Keegan insisted. “Right, Scythe?” he added, looking for support.
“It doesn’t matter to me either way.”
At least she answered me. A few days ago she would have just shrugged.
“Then we keep going,” Keegan insisted.
/> After a brief hesitation, Jerrod nodded, and they set off again, heading west and giving the farm a wide berth.
THE NIGHT SKY was clear and the moon was three-quarters full, giving the three of them just enough light to press onward.
Really it’s only Keegan who needs to see, Scythe thought to herself. Jerrod was able to call on his otherworldly perception, and since she’d taken up Daemron’s Sword, Scythe had found her own senses acutely heightened. Like some nocturnal predator, the faint light of the stars was all she needed to make out their surroundings.
The Sword was strapped diagonally across her back, held in place by a thin cloth binding around the blade just below the hilt and another near the tip. The bindings were secure enough to keep the weapon from slipping loose as she walked, but she knew if she needed to free it in a hurry, the Sword could slice through them with minimal effort.
Scythe honestly hadn’t cared whether they stayed at the burned-out farmhouse for the night or if they kept going. But once the decision was made to press on, she realized she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, and for that she was grateful. The pain of dreaming she was with Norr, then waking to find it wasn’t true, was something she didn’t need.
“We can’t keep going,” Jerrod suddenly declared, drawing Scythe out of her introspective musings. “It’s time to stop for the night. Gather our strength. We’ll need it tomorrow if we run into the Inquisitors who burned down the farm.”
This time, Keegan didn’t offer any objection.
He’s almost out on his feet, Scythe realized. He was slumped forward, his arms wrapped around Rexol’s staff to keep himself upright.
The monk had obviously been paying more attention to Keegan than she had. For a brief moment she felt a pang of guilt, then pushed it away.
It’s not my job to babysit him.
She couldn’t really blame him for his weakness. Jerrod was sustained through the Order’s ability to draw on their inner reserves of Chaos, and somehow the Sword was giving her extra reserves of energy. Apparently, the Ring he carried didn’t offer the same benefit.
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