The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “I am Orath,” he said. “I have come here to propose an alliance.”

  “Come from where?” the High Sorcerer demanded.

  He was afraid. Suspicious. So was the Queen. But Orath sensed something else in her as well. A hunger he knew how to feed. At his unspoken command, the aura surrounding him grew stronger—a small sacrifice of his power to project an image of even greater authority, a subtle push that could help his arguments win these mortals to his side.

  “I come from the depths of the Great Forest,” he explained.

  “Our patrols know every inch of the forest,” the Queen declared. “We have never had any reports of a creature like you.”

  Orath laughed softly. “A creature like me,” he muttered. “Once I was like you. Have I now become so hideous?”

  “You’re Danaan?” Andar asked, incredulous.

  “Not Danaan. I walked these woods long ago, when the humans and Danaan were still one people. Before the Cataclysm.”

  “That would make you over seven hundred years old,” Andar mocked.

  “I have not seen seven centuries,” Orath admitted. “For most of this time I have been … sleeping. Locked away in stasis by the Legacy.”

  “You fought with Daemron against the Old Gods,” Rianna said, quickly assembling the bits and pieces of Orath’s lie, just as he’d hoped.

  “Not all of the Slayer’s followers were banished with him when he fell,” Orath explained. “After the Cataclysm, some of us turned our back on the carnage of the war.

  “But we were still beings touched by Chaos, and when the Old Gods created the Legacy, we fell into hibernation with the Chaos Spawn.”

  “The Ring woke you,” the Queen whispered. “Like it woke the dragon.”

  Orath nodded but didn’t speak, knowing the less he said the better. His lies would carry more weight if the Queen believed she was figuring things out for herself.

  “You spoke of an alliance,” she added, urging him to continue.

  “I can help you reclaim what is rightfully yours. I can help you get the Ring back.”

  “Why do you want to help us?” Andar demanded. “What do you get out of this alliance?”

  This one doesn’t trust me, Orath thought. The aura worked better on some than others. But he didn’t need to win him over. The High Sorcerer’s loyalty to his monarch would compel him to follow her orders despite his personal doubts.

  “For centuries you and your line kept the Ring safe,” Orath said, ignoring Andar and addressing the Queen. “You kept its power in check. Now it is in the hands of one who has no idea of how to properly control Chaos.

  “What happened to your city was only the beginning,” he continued. “If used again, the Ring’s power will awaken armies of sleeping Chaos Spawn. They will unleash death and devastation across the world on a scale you cannot even fathom.

  “I witnessed one Cataclysm. I know another will destroy the world, and me along with it.”

  “How do we know you don’t want the Ring for yourself?” Andar asked.

  “It would destroy me if I tried to use it,” Orath admitted, countering the question with a half-truth. Using any of Daemron’s three Talismans by itself was dangerous and unpredictable. Their powers were meant to be used in concert, with each artifact balancing out the other two. He would only dare to unleash their power once he possessed the Ring, the Sword, and the Crown.

  “If I could take the Ring myself, I would,” the Minion said. “To keep it safe,” he quickly added. “But I’m not strong enough to stand against one who wields its power on my own. And neither is your kingdom.”

  He sensed her uncertainty, her confusion, her fear. His spell wasn’t strong enough to compel someone to obey, but it could push them in a direction they were already leaning. She was lost, and she was looking for someone to tell her what to do.

  “Do you believe we can get it back if we work together?” the Queen wanted to know.

  “That depends on you, my Queen,” Orath said with a bow. “How far are you willing to go to protect your people? What are you willing to do to reclaim the Ring?”

  “Anything,” Rianna promised. “Anything.”

  Chapter 2

  Keegan couldn’t move. He lay paralyzed on the battlefield that had once been a beach, surrounded by the bodies of the dead. Not all the bodies were human. Above him stood a towering figure bathed in Chaos fire, the blue flames so intense they burned Keegan’s eyes. A deafening roar drowned out all other noise—the sound of the Legacy crumbling.

  Terrified and helpless, the young wizard couldn’t look away—an unwilling witness to the fury of the Talismans’ full power finally unleashed.

  He woke with a start, his heart pounding and beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. The stump of his left arm throbbed with heat and pain, and he could feel the phantom fingers of his missing left hand clenching and unclenching involuntarily in response to the nightmare.

  In the flickering light of the campfire’s dying embers, he could just make out Vaaler’s form crouched beside him.

  “What’s wrong?” his friend asked. “Are you okay?”

  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Keegan muttered, “It’s nothing. Just a bad dream.”

  “Your dreams are more than nothing,” the exiled Danaan prince reminded him.

  “I’m tired,” Keegan protested, cradling his stump in his other arm and rolling over to turn his back to Vaaler. “I need to rest.”

  After a few moments, Vaaler got up and walked to the other side of the camp, leaving him alone. Sleep came again quickly, and mercifully the dream did not return.

  Scythe tossed and turned, her mind churning. When she heard Keegan thrashing and moaning in his sleep, she almost got up to check on him. But Vaaler beat her to it, so she decided to stay where she was.

  Having Norr sound asleep beside her only made things worse. Normally the deep, rhythmic rumbles of his breathing helped her drift off, but tonight they had the opposite effect.

  It’s not his fault, she chided herself. It’s this whole damn situation.

  Unlike her barbarian lover, who could have snored his way through the Cataclysm, her nights had been spent in restless worry since the five of them had fled the destruction of Ferlhame.

  It had taken them two days to reach the edge of the Danaan forest, their route angling northeast to give the Free Cities a wide berth. The trees hadn’t thinned gradually as one might expect; instead, the border was sharp and unnatural. Within a few steps they passed from a forest so lush and thick its canopy blocked out most of the sun and onto the plains of the Frozen East.

  The temperature was noticeably cooler than the moist, heavy air of the forest, and a thin veil of fog had blanketed the land their entire journey. The tundra stretched out to the horizon, flat and featureless save for scattered pockets of scrub vegetation and a few scattered hills barely visible in the distance.

  Keegan’s strength was returning, and Jerrod had tried to push their pace once they cleared the forest. But the horses struggled on the permafrost, their hooves sinking into the soft, half-frozen mud with every step. Their progress was further slowed by a chill headwind that had refused to let up for the past three days. To make up the lost time, they rode each day from just after dawn until well after the sun had disappeared.

  Too many days of endless riding were taking their toll. Yet even though her body was exhausted after each day’s ride, Scythe couldn’t shut her mind off when they bedded down. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she and Norr had gotten themselves mixed up in. Jerrod had the others convinced that Keegan was destined to be the savior of the world, but she still hadn’t fully bought into the monk’s madness.

  The young wizard had destroyed a dragon and demolished the Danaan capital, but using the ring Vaaler had stolen from the Danaan Queen had nearly killed him. As far as Scythe was concerned, if Keegan tried to use it again, he’d basically be committing suicide.

  Maybe that’s part of the destiny Jer
rod’s pitching, she thought. Maybe for Keegan to be the savior, he needs to be a martyr, too. Wouldn’t be surprised if Jerrod kept something like that from him.

  She didn’t trust the monk. He was using Keegan. But none of the others—not even Norr—could see it. Which meant she’d be the one who’d have to watch out for him.

  But maybe you don’t have to do it alone.

  Vaaler had been even quicker than she to check on Keegan a few minutes ago. And he’d given up everything—his people, his family, his kingdom—to join their quest. If she could get him to see Jerrod the way she saw him, maybe the two of them could stop Keegan from doing something stupid down the road.

  The night air was cold; autumn was upon them, and it wouldn’t be long before the first snowfall covered this region. Bracing herself against the chill, Scythe rolled out from the bedroll and made her way over to where Vaaler was tending the smoldering fire.

  When they had made camp the first night after leaving the forest, Norr had shown them how to dig a shallow pit in the permafrost to reveal the black, loamy peat beneath. The peat burned slowly—with too much smoke, an odd smell, and not enough heat—but the lack of vegetation on the tundra left few other options for fuel.

  The Danaan looked up as she approached, his eyes haunted and hollow in the sickly flames.

  Maybe Keegan isn’t the only one who needs someone to look out for him.

  “Heard you get up,” she noted, coming over and crouching down beside him to capture the faint wisps of heat curling up from the fire pit. “Is Keegan all right?”

  “Nightmare,” Vaaler answered softly. “He won’t talk about it.” “Can you blame him? After everything he went through, he probably just wants to forget about it for a while.”

  Vaaler shook his head. “I don’t think these are memories. Keegan has the Sight. He’s not just a wizard; he’s a prophet, too. I think he saw a vision. It scared him.”

  “Maybe he’s just overwhelmed by all this talk of being the savior of the world.”

  “He is the savior of the world,” Vaaler insisted.

  “You sound like Jerrod,” Scythe muttered, casting a quick glance to check if the monk was around. She couldn’t see him—most nights he took up a sentry position a short distance from the camp, using his mystical second sight to keep vigil in the darkness.

  Satisfied she and Vaaler could talk in private, she asked in a low voice, “Did you ever think that maybe Jerrod’s wrong?”

  “I’ve seen what Keegan can do,” Vaaler reminded her. “We studied together under Rexol—the most powerful wizard in the Southlands.”

  “So why isn’t he helping us on this quest?”

  “He’s dead,” Vaaler explained. “He tried to use one of the Talismans, and it killed him. Jerrod told me about it.”

  “You’re not worried the same thing might happen to Keegan?”

  Vaaler didn’t answer, his eyes dropping down to the fire.

  “I’m not doubting your friend,” Scythe assured him. “But I just think Jerrod might be holding something back. He’s devoted to his cause, not Keegan.”

  “Why this sudden interest in Keegan’s well-being?” Vaaler asked, his gaze coming back up to challenge her. “From what I heard, you were trying to kill him yourself not too long ago.”

  “Things change,” was her initial explanation. But she knew Vaaler would need more if she ever hoped to win him over.

  “I’m pretty good at judging people,” she added after a brief pause. “I can tell he’s basically a good kid at heart.”

  Vaaler laughed. “Kid? He’s the same age as you and me.”

  “But he seems younger. More naïve. More sheltered from the real world.”

  “I can’t disagree with you there,” Vaaler conceded.

  “I’ve seen the way you look out for him,” she pressed. “Like he’s your little brother. You just want to keep him safe. And whether you believe it or not, so do I.”

  The prince pondered her words for a few seconds before asking, “But you don’t think Jerrod feels the same way?”

  “I think he’s desperate to find his so-called savior, and he’ll do anything to make it happen.”

  “You’re right,” Jerrod said, his voice coming from only a few feet behind them.

  Both Scythe and Vaaler sprang to their feet and whirled to face the interloper. Neither had noticed his soundless approach.

  Silence hung in the air for several seconds, awkward and oppressive. Scythe could feel her face burning with guilt and embarrassment, her mind fumbling with excuses and explanations. And then Jerrod turned away.

  “Get the others up,” he ordered as he left. “It’s time to move. We’re being hunted.”

  Chapter 3

  JERROD COULD SENSE their pursuers gaining on them, but there was little he could do about it. The night was dark, the moon nothing more than a thin sliver barely able to penetrate the fog that had followed them since leaving the forest. It wasn’t safe for the horses to move at anything faster than a slow trot over the soft, uneven turf.

  It was doubtful the animals could have run much faster anyway. Grass was scarce on the tundra; the horses had been slowly starving ever since they left the Danaan forest. With only four mounts among the five riders, Scythe and Keegan had been doubling up for the journey, though even together they were less of a burden than Norr. Jerrod had been careful to rotate the riders so that no one animal was overtaxed, but without food to replenish their strength it was a losing battle.

  The monk focused his mental energies, casting out with his second sight to try to get an image of the hunters, but it was difficult to form a clear picture. In the Danaan forest the lingering aura of Old Magic clouded his vision. Here his vision was also limited, but in a very different way.

  Though the Order tried to keep it secret, the monks drew on Chaos as much as any witch or wizard. But instead of unleashing it upon the world, they internalized it, using it to heighten their perception and awareness of their surroundings, drawing on it to give them fantastic speed, strength, and endurance, even calling on it in battle to anticipate and counter the moves of an opponent before they happened.

  Chaos on the plains of the Frozen East was weak and thin—like the air atop a mountain peak that left the lungs gasping and straining for breath. He’d heard many theories as to why Chaos was weak here, but none had ever made much sense. But the why mattered little to him now: all he cared about was how it was affecting him.

  Everything was harder than it should have been. His body was slower and grew tired too quickly. He was unable to regulate his body’s temperature properly, causing him to shiver with the growing chill of the night. His all-encompassing Sight was restricted to a radius of only a few hundred yards, and instead of being instinctual he had to concentrate to keep the world around him from dissolving into gray emptiness.

  That was why he hadn’t noticed the hunters before. He’d only become aware of them after slipping into a state of deep meditation when they stopped for the night: a half dozen Inquisitors traveling on foot, picking their way across the tundra as they followed the trail left by the horses’ hooves in the soft ground.

  Like Jerrod, they would be limited by the lack of Chaos. But though the Inquisitors were lessened, the monks would still be more than a match for him and his companions … especially with Keegan still weakened from his battle with the dragon.

  With a flick of his heels, he urged his horse forward, moving from the back of the line past Keegan and Scythe, past the Danaan prince, and up beside Norr. Jerrod had hoped his familiarity with the land might give them an advantage over their pursuers, but it was clear that even with their barbarian guide it wouldn’t be long before the hunt came to an end.

  “They’re getting closer,” Norr said, as Jerrod’s mount came level with his own. His words were more statement than question.

  “Our pursuers travel faster on foot than we can on horseback,” Jerrod answered.

  “The same can be said of my peop
le,” Norr agreed. “Horses are ill suited for this land.”

  “Good—I’m tired of running,” Scythe called out.

  The horse carrying her and Keegan had fallen a few lengths behind the others, but in the still night their words had carried far enough for her to hear their conversation. She was sitting in front of the young wizard, her hands on the reins while he rode behind, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist to keep his balance.

  “Let’s send these Dweller bastards running back to the Forest,” she continued. “No offense,” she added, with a nod toward Vaaler as she drew up beside him.

  “It’s not the Danaan chasing us,” Jerrod corrected. “It’s the Order. Inquisitors.”

  “How many?” Keegan asked, poking his head over Scythe’s shoulder to be heard.

  “Six.”

  Norr laughed. “Six? Is that all? That’s barely enough for us to work up a sweat!”

  “These aren’t simple mercenaries,” Jerrod cautioned. “Your people are not born with Chaos in their blood, so the Order has never had reason to venture into your land. You have no idea what the Inquisitors are capable of.”

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Scythe interjected. “Their reputation always seemed a little overblown to me.”

  “It’s not,” Vaaler chimed in, lending his support to Jerrod.

  “How would you know?” she chided.

  “The Order wants to eradicate my people. We’d be fools not to study them so we can separate fact from fiction. And the martial prowess of the Inquisitors is very real.”

  “Remember how easily I defeated you in the tavern,” Jerrod reminded Norr. “The Inquisitors have similar training.”

  “You just caught me off guard,” Norr protested, though his words lacked conviction.