“There,” Jerrod said, interrupting his thoughts. “Just up ahead.”
A few moments later they rounded a small rise and Keegan could make out a faint glow from the embers of a small fire, burning in a small pit dug in the underbrush. The silhouettes of three horses tied nearby were barely visible in the moonlight. When they got closer, Jerrod reached down and grabbed a nearby stick and stirred up the smoldering fire, illuminating their surroundings.
The three horses were short and wide, with thick, stubby legs—pack animals rather than mounts. The bags and packs they’d been carrying were piled beside them, and six bedrolls were scattered around the fire. Otherwise, the camp was empty—apparently the soldier had told them the truth about that, at least.
“First we eat,” Jerrod said. “Then we rest until morning.”
“What about the prisoner?” Keegan asked, though he knew what the answer would be.
“He’ll slow us down,” the monk explained. “And it’s too dangerous to let him go free.”
From the corner of his eye, Keegan saw the soldier tense up at the words. He wasn’t armed, but he wasn’t tied or restrained in any way.
If he tries to run for it, Scythe will cut him down.
Part of Keegan hoped he would do just that—it would make everything easier. But the man was too scared to make a break for it. Either that, or he simply knew there was no hope of escape.
“We can’t just execute him,” Keegan insisted.
“Why not?” Scythe asked, though there was no real concern in her voice. “We killed all his friends.”
“You know that’s not the same,” Keegan snapped at her. “Killing an enemy in battle is one thing. Slaughtering a helpless prisoner is something else.”
“When did you suddenly start following some warrior code?” Scythe snarled, showing a rare hint of real emotion.
“If Norr were still here,” Keegan told her, daring to say the big man’s name aloud, “you know he’d say the same thing.”
“He’s not here,” Scythe hissed. “And you’re not him!”
She raised Daemron’s blade and held it poised above her head. To his credit, the prisoner didn’t flinch or fall down and beg for mercy, though in the flickering light of the fire Keegan noticed his lower lip twitching.
“Please, Scythe,” Keegan said, reaching out to her with his good hand. “Don’t do this.”
A new expression flickered across her face, vanishing before Keegan could read it. And then her features took on the familiar stone-faced apathy.
“Fine. It doesn’t matter to me, anyway,” the young woman said, lowering her weapon and turning away with an indifferent shrug.
She wandered off to where the packhorses were standing and began to dig through the bags, looking for rations.
“We can’t just let him go,” Jerrod said to Keegan, speaking calmly.
“I know,” the young man replied. “But maybe there’s another way. Just give me the night to think on it.”
“I can watch him while you rest,” Jerrod promised. “We will decide his fate tomorrow.”
Jerrod motioned for the prisoner to sit down. As he did, the man gave Keegan a brief nod, though from the look in his eyes he clearly wasn’t holding out much hope.
Neither am I, Keegan thought, turning away from the pitiful gaze. Neither am I.
THE EARTHQUAKE THAT had rocked Callastan had caused widespread destruction. However, the extent of the damage varied wildly from one neighborhood to the next. The city walls were relatively unscathed though several of the small underground tunnels used by criminal gangs to secretly slip beneath them had collapsed. The docks had suffered only minor structural damage, as had the noble quarter, and repairs to those areas were already well under way.
In the poorer sections of town, closer to the epicenter of the quake, the situation was far worse. Most of the newer buildings had wooden frames, and when the foundations shifted many of the structures had been warped and twisted beyond their limits. Nearly one in three had collapsed in on themselves, and just as many were now so unstable they had to be abandoned. The older buildings made of brick, mortar, and stone had fared somewhat better: Most were in no danger of falling anytime soon, though ominous-looking cracks had appeared in many of the exterior walls.
The greatest damage, however, wasn’t visible from the surface. Callastan was a city built atop a network of hidden cellars and secret basements connected by a labyrinth of sewers. Much of this hidden empire was now inaccessible, the hideouts cut off from each other or flooded by collapsing sewers. A few key thoroughfares—those most vital to the smugglers and various other criminal enterprises—had been cleared away and reopened. But it would be months—if not years—before everything was restored.
A radius of several blocks around what had once been a city jail was completely uninhabitable now—even the beggars and looters had abandoned it and pushed out to other, less damaged areas of the city. A scattering of bodies, buried beneath rubble or trapped in locations too difficult to reach, were slowly rotting, their foul stench and the scavenging vermin they attracted further dissuading any of the citizens from returning.
It was here that Orath had brought his two meat-puppets, looking for somewhere safe from prying eyes to conduct the ritual that would let him pierce the Legacy and reach across the Burning Sea to contact Daemron. The soldier and the harlot he had enslaved would serve as conduits, buffers to shield him from the unpredictable power of raw, elemental Chaos. But to prepare his sacrifices properly, he needed somewhere remote and isolated.
The entire city was thick with the almost overwhelming aura of Chaos magic—residue from when the Crown had killed the Crawling Twins. The essence of the Talisman was so pervasive it made it difficult for him to focus beyond what his eyes could see, especially while maintaining control of the courtesan and the soldier. By day, he and his toys would hide in the shadows—Orath in a meditative trance, his victims frozen in whatever position their master had left them in with his dancing, flickering fingers. At night, the three of them would wander the empty streets, Orath directing his prizes’ every step even as his mind poked and prodded the ruins around them looking for a suitable location.
The Minion was becoming frustrated with his search. The humans he held in thrall wouldn’t last much longer; without food or water their bodies would shut down completely in another day or two. The prospect of actually having to find sustenance for them was distasteful, but if he didn’t come across what he was looking for soon, there wouldn’t be any choice. They needed to be living—not healthy, but still imbued with some faint spark of life—to be of any use in the ritual he was planning.
And then he felt it: a large, empty cellar buried beneath the rubble of a collapsed building on the corner up ahead. In his mind’s eye he could see the only entrance—a metal trapdoor in the floor, still locked and intact despite the damage on the surface.
Rescued from the indignity of having to scrounge up scraps for his slaves, Orath quickly directed them over to what had once been a small, single-story shop. Had he wanted to, the Minion could have easily cleared away the debris blocking the cellar’s entrance. A simple spell could have blasted everything away, but he was loath to do anything that might announce his presence to the mortal who carried the Crown.
Even without calling on the power of Chaos magic, he was strong enough to have cleared a path to the trapdoor with minimal physical exertion. But such menial labor was beneath him. Instead, using a combination of mental commands and his twitching fingers, he set his slaves to the task.
Their fragile flesh-and-blood forms were ill suited to the grueling work. Their hands had quickly became scraped and cut from breaking up and carrying away the beams and bricks that covered the metal trapdoor. Their muscles were strained to their limits and beyond as they hoisted up massive wooden support beams and large chunks of what had once been the walls and ceiling.
Inevitably, their overstressed bodies were torn apart: Sinew ripped and muscles tore and ten
dons snapped beneath the skin. They were unable to scream—Orath had forever silenced their voices—but the twisted expressions of agony on their faces gave mute testament to their suffering.
Had it not been for the powerful spell keeping them animated, the humans would have collapsed into useless heaps. As it was, their bodies pressed onward, sustained only by the Chaos of the cruel master that commanded their every move. Unmoved by their plight, Orath pushed them even harder, knowing this torture was nothing compared to what would befall them later.
They finished just before sunup, their hours of brutal labor finally exposing the trapdoor. The ordeal had left their limbs mangled and useless, their bodies and spirits broken. In their eyes, Orath could see they yearned for death. But they still had one more purpose to serve before he would grant them that release.
Knowing even their Chaos-augmented strength wouldn’t be enough to snap the lock that held the trapdoor closed, Orath stepped forward and wrenched it open. Then he turned to his victims and marched them down the cellar stairs, their broken bodies staggering and stumbling grotesquely with every step. Halfway down, the woman’s already damaged kneecap dislocated completely and she toppled forward into the soldier ahead of her. The pair tumbled down the stone steps in a tangle, bones snapping and cracking until they ended up in a heap of quivering flesh at the bottom.
For an instant Orath feared they might have snapped their necks, and he cursed his carelessness—he needed them alive! But as he scrambled down to check on them, he found fortune was on his side. Gruesome as their injuries were, none of them had proved fatal.
They couldn’t walk anymore; even Orath’s spell had its limits. But he didn’t need them to go anywhere else.
“Soon this will all be over,” he assured them, though he doubted they could hear him through the shrieking agony of their abused bodies.
It would take many hours to make the necessary preparations for the spell to reach across the Burning Sea and contact his liege. Though the Legacy was fading, the power of the Old Gods was still strong enough to keep Daemron banished. But piercing the Legacy was the least of Orath’s worries. Once he reached beyond the mortal world his consciousness would have to cross the Burning Sea, an ocean of Chaos in its purest and most powerful form. If he wasn’t careful, he would be consumed by the fires.
In theory, it was possible to reach across the Burning Sea to send a message to Daemron through sheer force of will. But doing so would push Orath’s strength to its limits, and leave his reserves of Chaos drained. Instead, he would call upon the rituals he had learned at the feet of the Slayer himself. He would use the life energy of his victims to summon Chaos into the mortal world, controlling it with runes and arcane symbols traced in their still-warm blood. When the spell was over the mortals at his feet would be gone—their bodies, minds, and spirits completely consumed by the power of Chaos.
But their sacrifice will keep me safe. Shield me from the backlash of the spell and protect me from the Chaos flames of the Burning Sea.
Or so he hoped.
He took a deep, cleansing breath, focusing his will for what was to come. Then he climbed the stairs and pulled the trapdoor closed again, sealing the three of them inside the suddenly pitch-black cellar.
“It is time to begin.”
—
“Remarkable,” Methodis said, shaking his head as he finished rewrapping the splints and bandages around Cassandra’s legs. “If there were some way to share these incredible healing powers with the masses, maybe the Order wouldn’t be viewed with such suspicion and fear.”
Cassandra didn’t say anything. Rexol had claimed that much of her amazing recovery could be attributed to her drawing on the power of the Crown; despite her mistrust of most of what the wizard said, she thought in this case he was right. But so far Methodis hadn’t asked her about the Talisman, and she didn’t want to be the one to bring it up.
“I suppose it takes years of intense training,” the healer continued. “Though I imagine there are some who would be willing if given the chance to learn the Order’s secrets.”
“Training alone wouldn’t be enough,” Cassandra said. “Those of us brought into the Order have been touched by Chaos. It gives us abilities beyond those of ordinary men and women.”
“Like the film over the eyes,” he said, nodding in understanding. “According to all medical knowledge, you should be completely blind. Yet you clearly see the world better than I.”
He’s fishing for information! Rexol hissed. He’s up to something!
It did seem as if the doctor wanted to know more, but Cassandra didn’t sense anything sinister in his words.
“My Sight is far superior to ordinary vision,” she admitted. “Yet it also serves as a powerful reminder of the twisted nature of Chaos. Only by becoming blind can we truly learn to see.”
“Did it hurt?” Methodis asked. Then he drew in his breath sharply. “I’m sorry. I have no right to pry into your personal life. Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of my manners.”
“It burns for a few seconds,” Cassandra said, speaking slowly as she thought back to the memory of the ritual that forever marked her. “But the pain passes quickly. A small price to pay for what I have gained.”
“How old were you when they did this to you?”
“This was not done to me,” Cassandra said, a sudden urge to defend the Order she was no longer even a part of. “It was my choice!”
“A poor choice of words on my part,” Methodis apologized. “Please forgive a foolish old man. We don’t have to talk about this.”
“I was thirteen,” Cassandra said after a brief pause. She wasn’t sure why she was opening up to him, but she suddenly wanted to get the words out.
“That seems quite young to make such an important decision,” he said. But his tone was mild, and Cassandra didn’t see his comment as a challenge.
“I understood the consequences of my choice,” she said. “I had already been living and studying at the Monastery for many years before that.”
“I’ve never understood that,” Methodis continued. “Why must the Order take children from their parents at such a young age?”
They didn’t take you from your parents! Rexol shouted inside her head. They stole you from me!
“The training must begin early in life,” Cassandra explained, ignoring the wizard. “If the Order waited until we were older, we could never learn to control the Chaos that rages inside us.”
“They took you in as a child and set you on this path,” Methodis pressed. “Don’t you ever feel like your future was stolen from you?”
It was, Rexol chimed in. You should have been the greatest Chaos mage since the Cataclysm.
“Life and fortune pushes us all down certain paths,” Cassandra answered. “This was mine. I have no regrets.”
“Yet now the Order is hunting you,” Methodis reminded her. “Something clearly happened that was not part of the plan.”
Don’t tell him anything else! Rexol snapped. You’ve said too much already.
This time Cassandra decided to heed the wizard’s advice. She wasn’t worried about Methodis betraying her, but she wasn’t eager to confess her betrayal of her brothers and sisters at the Monastery, or the terrible burden Nazir had put on her before his death.
“I’m feeling a bit tired,” she said. “I think I need to rest.”
“Of course,” Methodis said, clearly sensing he had gone too far. “I will get you something to help you sleep.”
A few minutes later he returned with the familiar elixir. Knowing rest would help her body heal more quickly, she drank it without protest. Within seconds she felt herself slipping away into unconsciousness. Yet even as her muscles relaxed and her Sight faded into blackness, she kept her mind focused and alert, knowing what was to come. It was time to resume her battle with Rexol.
Each time she drifted off to sleep now she would find herself as a child once again, remembering lessons at the mage’s feet that never
actually happened. And though she tried to resist his efforts to teach her, the mage was crafty and cunning. He would constantly change her surroundings, altering the trappings of the dream each time to disorient her. He would craft elaborately detailed scenarios to trick her into believing she was still a child. Sometimes she would be studying incantations and words of power from an arcane tome. Other times she would be practicing strange gestures or reciting mystic chants under Rexol’s watchful eye, a student dutifully performing her daily exercises.
Sometimes she would be very young—six or maybe seven. Still of an age when adult authority was accepted without question. Other times she would be older; on the cusp of womanhood, her mind filled with the questions and insecurities every teenager faced. In every case, however, the wizard’s goal was the same: to convince Cassandra’s subconscious that she was his apprentice and he her mentor.
Typically, it would take some time before Cassandra was able to remember her true identity and shake off the ruse—time the wizard used to force his knowledge into her mind, bit by bit. And each time she rejected him, he would threaten, cajole, or tempt her in a futile but relentless effort to win her over.
I can teach you to control the power of the Crown so that it won’t harm anybody else.
If you don’t learn these lessons, you will be defenseless the next time the Slayer’s Minions find you.
Listen to me and you can become a God!
Ultimately, however, Rexol’s desperate ploys held no sway over her. The Order had trained her too well; her mind was too disciplined to ever embrace what he was trying to tell her.
You know that’s not true. Like it or not, you’re beginning to understand the true nature of Chaos rather than the myths and lies taught to you by the Order.
This time there was something different about the dream. Rexol wasn’t projecting an image of her younger self. He didn’t seem to be projecting any kind of image at all—it felt as if she were standing in a completely dark room.
This dream is not of my doing.
She could still feel the wizard’s presence, but she sensed him only as the incorporeal voice inside her head rather than the stern and commanding authority figure he typically portrayed himself as.
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