The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)

by Drew Karpyshyn

  But I can’t stay here forever.

  The Guardian shrugged his shoulders, working out a knot in his muscular neck before sitting down once more. Cassandra took a seat next to him, her heart involuntarily speeding up as her host leaned in and handed her a bowl of steaming stew.

  The bowl was enormous, and Cassandra had to use both hands to support its weight. Her grip was awkward; she’d lost the ring and pinky fingers of her left hand to frostbite traveling across the mountains to reach the Guardian’s lair. But she managed to raise the bowl to her lips, tipping it back so the delicious broth spilled down her throat.

  “You’re getting stronger,” the Guardian said approvingly.

  But you’re getting weaker.

  It was subtle but undeniable. Though his features and frame were still inhumanly perfect, his appearance had changed. When she’d first arrived, the Guardian’s blue skin had almost seemed to glow, as if he were illuminated from within by the spark of immortality. Since her arrival, that luster had begun to fade.

  Cassandra glanced over to the back corner of the cave. A stone pedestal stood in a recessed alcove. At its base rested the Crown she had come so far and suffered so much to deliver into the Guardian’s care.

  Embedded in the top of the pedestal, blade pointed down and hilt toward the ceiling, was a magnificent sword. The handle was black, and carved with a subtle pattern that seemed to shift and flow as if it were alive. The silver blade radiated power, and when Cassandra glanced at it from the corner of her eye it seemed to take on a reddish hue—a lingering reflection of all the blood it had spilled.

  Daemron’s sword, given to him by the True Gods before he rose up against them. A weapon infused with the power of Old Magic, entrusted by the True Gods to the Guardian after the Cataclysm.

  It was far too small for the Guardian to wield—in his enormous hand it would be little more than a dagger. When he left the cave to hunt for food, he armed himself with a heavy spear, the shaft as thick around as Cassandra’s thigh.

  Yet even if the Sword had been properly proportioned for the Guardian to use, Cassandra knew he wouldn’t have dared. For him the blade was a holy relic; his entire existence focused on the single task of protecting the Talisman bequeathed to him by the True Gods.

  In return for his unwavering devotion, the Guardian had become immortal. For centuries he had dwelt alone in the cave, sustained by the power of the Talisman. Until Cassandra’s arrival.

  Like all who served in the Order, she knew the history of the Talismans well. The Crown and the Sword, along with a magical Ring, had all been forged from the fires of Chaos by the True Gods. Yet each was imbued with a unique type of power. The Sword had sustained the Guardian for seven hundred years, but the mere presence of the Crown was slowly killing him.

  Such are the ways of Chaos. Opposition and conflict are inherent in its nature. Even the True Gods couldn’t change that.

  “The one who hunted you is gone,” the Guardian said. “She has fled back over the mountains though to what purpose I cannot say.”

  Cassandra nodded, remembering the dark avian figure that still stalked her dreams.

  “She may return,” the Guardian warned. “Or others may come. I will try to protect you, but my power ebbs.”

  This was as close as he would ever get to admitting the truth. The Crown was anathema to him, slowly poisoning him. Yet he would never cast her out. The Guardian would sacrifice his own life without a second thought to keep her safe.

  But eventually he would succumb. And once he was gone, Cassandra would be defenseless.

  You are not defenseless! You have the Crown and the Sword! Use them to destroy your enemies!

  Cassandra shook her head. The words were not her own; they seemed to materialize from some unknown source. But just for an instant, she considered them.

  The Talismans will destroy you! she reminded herself. Rexol was the most powerful mage in the Southlands, and the Crown devoured him when he tried to use it.

  And even if she were strong enough to survive, unleashing the power of Old Magic could bring down the Legacy, unleashing Daemron the Slayer and his hordes of Chaos Spawn upon the mortal world.

  “I can’t stay here forever,” Cassandra told him. “My fate lies outside the safety of your cave.”

  “Where will you go?”

  The obvious question, but one which Cassandra couldn’t answer.

  “Rest awhile longer,” the Guardian urged, taking advantage of her uncertain silence. “A few more days to recover your strength.”

  Surrounded by the warmth of the cave and with her belly full, Cassandra could find no reason to argue.

  Setting down her empty bowl, she watched the Guardian in silence as he filled his own dish. He was Chaos Spawn, but he was no twisted monster. And it wasn’t just his physical perfection; there seemed to be a spark of the divine inside him.

  “Did you know the True Gods?” Cassandra asked him.

  He nodded, then set his meal down on the ground beside him.

  “The Old Gods created me,” he whispered. “Back when the world was young. They called me forth from the ice and stone of the mountains and breathed life into my form.

  “Back then,” he added after a momentary pause, “even the Gods did not understand the dangers of creation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The spell that gave me life sent ripples through the Chaos Sea. In the slime and filth far below the burning waves, a vile brute was born. My dark twin. The ogre.”

  Cassandra nodded, remembering her lessons in the Monastery. Chaos rebels against order.

  “The Gods gave life to this world, but in doing so they unwittingly called forth creatures like the ogre. Monsters that crawled from the Burning Sea to wreak destruction on these mortal shores.

  “Once they understood the terrible consequences of their actions, the Gods realized they could no longer dwell in this realm. Their very presence caused ripples in the Chaos Sea that would bring harm to those they sought to protect. Yet they could not abandon the people, either. They needed a hero to defend this realm.”

  “But why did they choose Daemron?” Cassandra asked. “Why didn’t they choose you?”

  “He was a mortal naturally born into this world. I am a creature formed from Chaos.” The Guardian spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “The Talismans they gave to Daemron would have affected me in dangerous and unpredictable ways.”

  Like how the Sword has sustained you for all these centuries, she thought, yet the Crown is now slowly killing you.

  “In the beginning, I fought by Daemron’s side,” the blue-skinned titan continued. “Together we drove the Chaos Spawn into hiding.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A great warrior,” the Guardian replied. “A powerful wizard. A brilliant prophet. A mighty king.”

  As he spoke, he looked away from her and reached down to pick up the bowl from the ground beside him, his gaze focused intently on his meal.

  “Were you friends?” Cassandra asked, sensing he was holding something back. “Before he betrayed the True Gods?”

  The boldness of the question surprised her, but if the Guardian was offended, he gave no sign.

  “We were allies,” he answered, turning his head to look at her once more. “But there was always something dark within him.

  “A true hero fights for something greater than themselves. He or she is willing to sacrifice everything to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

  Like you, Cassandra thought.

  “But Daemron was different. His courage was selfish. He risked his life for glory and praise. He was fearless, but only because he was so proud he did not believe he could die.

  “It wasn’t enough that the Gods had chosen him as their Champion. It wasn’t enough that they had gifted him with the Talismans. He believed he was their equal; he believed he deserved to be immortal. And he used the very gifts the Gods
had given him to take what he thought he deserved.”

  Is that so wrong? To seize what you want?

  Once again Cassandra was momentarily caught off guard by the words that sprang unbidden into her head. The concept went against everything she had been taught, everything she believed in.

  “Didn’t the True Gods sense Daemron’s corruption?” Cassandra asked, ignoring the stray—and unwelcome—thought.

  “All mortals are corrupt and flawed next to the perfection of the divine,” the Guardian countered. “Perhaps they felt Daemron was the best they could find.”

  “But you knew he was dangerous,” Cassandra pressed. “Didn’t you try to warn them?”

  “Who was I to question the judgment of the Gods?” he countered. “I thought my doubts about him were evidence of my own failings: manifestations of my jealousy and resentment that they had elevated him over me. It was only after his betrayal that the truth became evident to all.

  “The Talismans were imbued with the essence of the Gods themselves,” he continued. “They possessed the power of raw Chaos: the power of life and creation. Daemron discovered a ritual to unleash that power; he used it to transform himself from a man into an Immortal. But the backlash of his spell changed him in other ways, too.”

  “How so?”

  “The darkness inside him grew stronger; it consumed his mind and spirit. And his physical appearance was forever altered. The Chaos changed him from human into something demonic and twisted. His exterior form became a reflection of the evil inside. He became as monstrous as the Chaos Spawn he once fought against—a being that fed on violence, suffering, and death.”

  Cassandra knew the rest of the story: Daemron the Slayer, former hero and protector of the mortal world, rallied the Chaos Spawn to his banner … along with thousands of mortal men and women who chose to follow him instead of the Gods that had given them life. But in the end, his rebellion failed.

  “Were you there when Daemron fell?” Cassandra asked.

  “He never fell,” the Guardian corrected her. “He fled.

  “I fought on the side of the Gods in the final battle. I was locked in mortal combat with the ogre, my dark twin, when Daemron realized all was lost. In a last, desperate act he cast a powerful spell, ripping open the fabric of existence to create a portal to another realm.”

  “The Cataclysm,” Cassandra whispered, suppressing a shiver.

  The Guardian nodded. “The fury of the Chaos he summoned split the mortal world in two, unleashing earthquakes, floods, and fires across all the lands.

  “Daemron and many of his followers fled through the portal, abandoning the mortal world. In the confusion, the ogre escaped me though I cannot say for sure if the beast made it through the portal before it snapped shut.

  “Many of the Chaos Spawn did not; they were trapped here. But with their leader gone, they scattered, disappearing in the turmoil of the Cataclysm. Acting quickly, the Gods combined their power to heal the rift in the mortal world before everything was completely destroyed. But the ritual crippled them; in saving us all, they themselves were mortally wounded.”

  The Guardian paused in his tale, as if gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and choked, as if holding back tears.

  “The Gods knew they were dying, so they had to act quickly. With the last of their strength they created the Legacy, a barrier between this world and the Burning Sea that trapped Daemron and his followers in their banishment.

  “No longer able to draw freely on the power that had created them, the Chaos Spawn that were left behind quickly became weak. To survive, they went into hibernation deep beneath the earth: a sleep from which we hoped they would never wake.

  “And then the Gods just … slipped away.” The Guardian’s voice had dropped to a low whisper, and his eyes’ gaze was distant and unfocused.

  “The True Gods gave of themselves to bring peace to the mortal world,” Cassandra added, reciting the familiar words from her earliest lessons in the Monastery. “They sacrificed themselves that we could live on, bequeathing the Legacy to us that we may preserve it for all time.”

  The Guardian bowed his head and closed his eyes, and Cassandra realized that she could never fully comprehend the depth of his grief. She had spent most of her life worshipping the True Gods: revering them and seeking to honor them by protecting the Legacy. But the great titan had actually known them. He had spoken with them and walked at their side. He had felt the love and glory of the True Gods firsthand, only to have it taken away as he watched them die with his own eyes.

  He’s been alone in this cave for hundreds of years—trapped with nothing but the memories of what he has lost. And I just forced him to confront those memories head-on.

  She wanted to say something to comfort him, but she knew any words she spoke could do little to ease his suffering. And so she watched him in silence. After a few minutes he seemed to regain his composure, and he stood up to his full height, his right hand clutching his massive spear.

  “The storm is waning,” he told her, his voice rough and catching slightly in his throat. “It’s time to hunt, or tomorrow we will run out of food.”

  Cassandra nodded, though she sensed this was just an excuse to end their conversation. Clearly she had touched a nerve in her otherwise stoic host.

  He disappeared into the swirling snow beyond the entrance, leaving her alone in the warmth of the cave. Doing her best to ignore the Sword in the far corner of the cave, she curled up near the fire and closed her eyes, hoping her sleep would not be plagued by more nightmares of Yasmin or the dark-winged hunter.

  Chapter 6

  ROGGEN WAS THE first to see the unusual tracks—a single set of footprints in the thin layer of snow, partially obscured by the hooves of the elk herd they’d been following since dawn. He held up his right hand in a fist, and the other five members of the Sun Blade hunting party immediately came to a halt.

  Crouching, he took a closer look. They were fresh, and clearly human—medium-sized boots; but judging by the depth and the gait of the stride he guessed they were made by a woman rather than a man.

  The footsteps headed off in the opposite direction of the herd. The clan was running low on stores; they couldn’t abandon the hunt. But Roggen couldn’t ignore the tracks, either—trespassers couldn’t be allowed to cross through clan territory unchallenged.

  Odd to find solitary tracks. Is she some kind of outcast from one of the neighboring clans?

  Exile was a rare punishment, reserved only for the most heinous of crimes: treason, cold-blooded murder, or cowardice.

  “Berlen,” he called out to the largest of the hunters. “Follow these tracks. Find out who this woman is and why she’s here.”

  Berlen hefted his spear and nodded. Just before he broke away from the rest of the group, Roggen grabbed his forearm.

  “Be careful,” the leader warned, seized by an urgent but vague premonition of danger. “She might be armed.”

  The big man scowled. “If you don’t think I can handle it,” he snarled, “then send someone else!”

  Roggen released his grip, realizing he’d overstepped.

  Berlen knows how to look out for himself. That’s why you chose him.

  “I just meant don’t kill her unless you have to,” Roggen backpedaled, releasing his grip on his friend’s arm. “You know how you get.”

  A lie, but one necessary to avoid giving offense. Mocking Berlen’s infamous temper was far more acceptable than casting doubt on his martial prowess.

  “I’ll bring her back in one piece,” Berlen promised, his bearded face breaking into a grin.

  Feet crunching over the crystal carpet of snow blanketing the ground, Raven walked with a smooth, steady pace. Another storm was rolling in, but she ignored the icy wind clawing at the exposed flesh on the face and hands of her new human form, just as she ignored the rumbling of her empty stomach.

  In her youth, she had spent many nights shivering on the desolate, ashe
n plains of Daemron’s blighted kingdom. Before rising through the ranks of the Slayer’s followers, she had fought and clawed with others of her kind to claim a share of the foul-tasting sludge that was the realm’s only source of sustenance. But with power and position came privilege, and it had been decades since she’d felt the pains of cold or hunger.

  Yet Raven understood that these physical torments were ephemeral, an illusion brought about by her transformation into a flesh-and-blood woman. Born and bred in a realm where the power of Chaos was not blunted by the Legacy, she was stronger and more resilient than the weak and physically vulnerable denizens of this world. And though she had cloaked herself in the essence of a mere mortal—a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in the style of the local clans—beneath the surface Chaos still sustained her true form.

  It would have been possible to alter her appearance with a simple glamour, a superficial veneer that would blind the eyes of any ordinary men and women she encountered. But those touched by the power of Chaos wouldn’t be fooled by such artifice. The mortal she had hunted, the one carrying the Crown, would still sense her presence, as would the Guardian who now gave her prey sanctuary. Like calling to like.

  It wasn’t these two she most feared, however. She had failed in her mission, and Orath did not forgive failure. By now, the leader of the Minions had probably sent others after her: most likely the Crawling Twins. Those who had come to power under Daemron’s rule had not done so by being merciful, and any excuse to eliminate a potential rival would be eagerly seized. If they sensed Raven’s presence nearby, they would be quick to turn on her.

  Yet there was more to Raven’s plan than simply hiding from the wrath of her fellow Minions. The Crown alone wouldn’t be enough to bring down the Legacy and usher in Daemron’s return. Orath was searching for the rest of the Talismans, and eventually he would learn what Raven already knew—the Sword was with the Guardian. She had felt its power just before she had abandoned her hunt and fled beyond the Guardian’s reach, muted and faint but unmistakable. Merely returning to Orath with news of the Sword’s location wouldn’t be enough to atone for her failure. She would need to do much more if she wanted to redeem herself.