“Are you really so eager to meet your death?” Jerrod asked.
Scythe shrugged. “If death is coming, I want it to be on my own terms.
“Besides,” she added, “I’ve been in impossible situations before and fought my way out.”
“I could have guessed that,” the monk replied. “You have an irrational confidence in your own abilities.”
“You put your faith in prophecies,” she countered. “I like to put my faith in myself.”
“Admirable. But surely there are times when you must doubt yourself.”
“Sometimes,” Scythe admitted. “But I usually get over it.”
In spite of himself, Jerrod smiled.
“What about you?” Scythe wanted to know. “You ever have any doubts about your faith?”
Jerrod didn’t answer for a long time. When he finally broke the silence all he said was, “They’re coming.”
“You can’t ever admit you’re wrong, can you?” Scythe sighed.
“No,” Jerrod clarified. “I can see them now. A few miles off. They’re coming.”
On the very edges of his Sight’s awareness, he could just make out a score of canines and three humans, crouched low to the ground as they ran and somehow keeping pace with their four-legged companions. The pack closed in quickly, covering the last few miles to the Gerscheld at a full run.
The animals were massive; far larger than the domesticated dogs in the south. Most were covered with thick black fur though a handful were pure white. Their sharp white teeth gleamed brightly against their black mouths and gums, and their lupine eyes glowed yellow in the night.
The humans—two women and one man, he realized as they drew closer—were clad in heavy pelts from head to toe to shield them against the cold. Jerrod had expected them to be armed, but they carried no weapons, though their bare hands sported half-inch-long fingernails filed to sharp points.
As the pack neared, he could hear the humans communicating through a mix of whistles and long, high-pitched howls that pierced the wind and rain. In response, the dogs fanned out, with several circling around to cut off any chance for the Inquisitors to escape.
Jerrod knew the Inquisitors had no intention of trying to run. They were young and passionate: too eager to prove themselves to the new Pontiff to even consider retreat. However, despite their enthusiasm, they had no chance of victory.
Outnumbered four to one, their supernatural speed and strength wouldn’t be enough to overcome the unfavorable odds. Not against this kind of enemy. The Order trained its warriors to fight human foes, not animals. The attacks and counters that proved so devastating against an armed opponent would be far less effective against a swarming pack of savage beasts.
More importantly, the mystical ability of the monks to peer into an enemy’s mind to anticipate and counter every move wouldn’t work. The dogs weren’t rational and calculating; they didn’t rely on strategy and technique. Their attacks would be driven by raw and brutal instincts, making their actions impossible to predict.
Sort of like Scythe.
“When the fighting starts, we can hit them from behind,” the young woman suggested eagerly, almost as if she sensed that Jerrod was thinking about her. “They won’t stand a chance with enemies on all sides.”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” Norr warned.
The barbarian had braved the storm to come to stand with Scythe and Jerrod once the howls began to pierce the night, leaving Vaaler to watch over Keegan in the shelter of the stone circle.
“The dogs will attack anyone who isn’t part of the pack,” Norr explained. “They could just as easily turn on us as the Inquisitors.”
“But if the Inquisitors win the battle, we’re not any better off than we were before,” Scythe objected.
“They won’t,” Jerrod assured her.
When the attack came it was quick, violent, and decisive. Even through the storm and the night’s gloom, Jerrod’s awareness allowed him to witness the slaughter in all its graphic detail.
The pack rolled over the Inquisitors like a wave of fur, teeth, and claws. Spinning their staves, the Inquisitors flipped, spun, and twirled with terrifying speed. But the dogs never faltered, never hesitated. The sharp crack of bone as a hound’s ribs were broken with a precise strike was drowned out by the wet rip of an Achilles tendon being torn out by sharp teeth. The yelp of pain as the butt of a staff was driven into a wolflike eye was offset by the snarling snap of jaws clamping down on a wrist and refusing to let go. Soon, even the screams of pain as flesh was shredded and torn into bloody chunks by savage fangs couldn’t rise above the barking, baying cacophony of the hunt.
The Pack Masters never even entered the fray, content to merely watch as their pets dragged the Inquisitors down and literally ripped them apart.
That’s why they don’t carry weapons, Jerrod realized. They don’t need them.
The battle was over in less than ten minutes. Once the last Inquisitor had fallen, the shrill whistles of the Pack Masters called the dogs to heel though four of the animals were too injured from the fight to answer.
With his Sight, Jerrod watched as the humans tended to the fallen hounds. Two were put down, their wounds too serious to treat. The other pair were bandaged with a care and tenderness that contrasted sharply with the brutality of the recent massacre.
As the Pack Masters tended to their injured animals, the fury of the storm passed and the night fell into a grim silence. Jerrod and the others waited without speaking, each hoping the deadly pack would simply move on. Of course, that didn’t happen.
“They know we’re up here,” Norr finally acknowledged. “The dogs can smell us.”
“Great,” Scythe muttered. “They saved us from the Inquisitors. Now who saves us from them?”
“Let me go talk to them,” Norr offered.
“No!” Scythe snapped. “Those beasts will rip you to shreds!”
“The Inquisitors were Outlanders,” Norr explained. “They were not worthy of anything but death. But the Gerscheld is a sacred place among all the clans; it’s a place of parley. Even though I’m not one of their own, the Pack Masters might be willing to strike a bargain with me.”
“Because you’re an Easterner?” Scythe asked.
“That’s my hope,” Norr said, but Jerrod sensed he was hiding something.
“I’m coming with you,” Scythe declared.
“No—they see you and they’ll set the dogs loose,” Norr warned. “Any of you. Stay here until I come back.”
Scythe opened her mouth like she wanted to say something else, then closed it when she realized there were no other arguments to be made.
Jerrod stepped forward and clasped the other man’s meaty wrist in a firm grasp.
“May the Old Gods watch over you,” he said.
“They don’t hold much sway among my people,” Norr reminded him.
The big man turned and marched slowly away, limping slightly as he made his way down the Gerscheld’s twisting path to the waiting pack below.
Watching Norr disappear into the gloom of the night, Scythe felt like throwing up. She knew he was right—he had to go down alone. But she didn’t have to like it.
Despite his outward calm, she could tell he was nervous. Anxious. There was something he wasn’t telling them.
Maybe he doesn’t really believe they’ll parley with him.
It had been too dark for Scythe to see the battle at the base of the Gerscheld, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what had happened from the sounds rising from below. She felt no sympathy for the Inquisitors, but getting ripped apart by dogs was a bad way to go.
What if I hear those sounds again?
She tried not to imagine her lover suffering such a gruesome fate, but the possibility of it lingered in her mind.
From the night, she heard Norr call out a greeting as he neared the bottom of the path. A low growl rolled up from the pack, and Scythe’s heart began to pound. A sharp whistle from one of the Pack Masters cut
the growling short.
The silence that followed was almost unbearable, but it was better than the sickening sounds of the pack taking another target down. Wet and cold, Scythe shivered as the minutes passed.
After a while, she began to pace, trying to burn off her anxiety and helpless frustration with quick, angry strides.
What’s taking so long? What’s going on down there?
She stopped when she heard the sound of someone coming up the path, freezing in place.
“They’ve agreed to help us,” Norr said, speaking just as his enormous silhouette materialized from the gloom.
Relief hit Scythe so hard she gasped and struggled to catch her breath. Ignoring the others, she raced over and threw herself at Norr. He caught her easily, lifting her up and drawing her into his chest. She wrapped her arms around his massive neck, burying her face in his shoulder so that she could feel his beard softly tickling the back of her neck. In the embrace neither of them spoke, content simply to hold each other close.
“Do they have any supplies they can spare?” Jerrod asked after several seconds, intruding on their private moment.
“We’re going with them,” Norr explained, loosening his grip and letting Scythe gently slide back down so that her feet could touch the ground. “They’ll escort us to their camp.”
“Keegan isn’t strong enough to walk,” Jerrod pointed out.
“I’ll carry him,” Norr offered. “It’s only a few miles.”
“They have supplies there?”
Norr nodded. “They found our horses after they fled. That’s why they were patrolling this area. They knew that Outlanders had entered their territory.”
“Maybe it would be better for Keegan if we brought one of the horses back for him to ride,” Scythe suggested.
“The horses are gone,” Norr said. “Winter is coming. The herds are migrating to the Southlands. Food is scarce, and the pack needs to feed.”
Scythe’s stomach churned, but she didn’t say anything else as Norr walked over to where Vaaler was watching over the fallen wizard.
“How is he?”
The exiled prince shook his head. “Not good. He needs food. Water. Warm clothes.”
Norr nodded. Then, ignoring his bad leg, he bent over and scooped Keegan up, cradling him in his arms like a child. The smaller man groaned, but otherwise didn’t stir.
“Follow me and stay close,” Norr said. “No sudden movements.”
He led them single file down the path, limping slightly. Jerrod quickly fell into step behind him, staying as close to Keegan as possible. Scythe went next, with Vaaler trailing a few steps behind.
With the passing of the storm, the moon gave enough light for them to pick their way carefully down the path. When they reached the bottom, one of the Pack Masters was waiting for them—a tall woman clad in a heavy cloak stitched from animal pelts. She was flanked on either side by one of her pets. To the left was a large, black hound, its dark fur making it blend into the gloom so that it almost seemed to be a creature of shadow. The animal to her right was white as snow though its muzzle and chest were flecked with dark maroon stains from the recent battle.
The Pack Master whistled twice, and the rest of the dogs came over, moving slowly. They began to circle the newcomers, sniffing curiously.
Scythe tried to stay completely still as she felt the hot breath of the beasts snuffling up against her leg but couldn’t contain a small shudder. She didn’t like dogs; in her experience they were either hungry, vicious strays wandering the streets of Callastan, or trained killers guarding the estates of the wealthy.
None of those mutts would stand a chance against these brutes. They’re more like wolves than dogs.
The inspection lasted several seconds before the Pack Master called them off with another whistle.
She said something to Norr, speaking in the Eastern tongue, then turned away and started off.
“It’s time to go,” Norr explained.
“What about those two?” Scythe asked, nodding over to where the other Pack Masters were still milling about in the darkness.
“They’re harvesting what’s left of the Inquisitors.”
“Harvesting?” Scythe mumbled, her stomach turning once again.
“Meat and bones,” Norr confirmed in a grim whisper. “The pack has to feed.”
Chapter 8
THE BLACK LAKE needed no other name. Located deep within the Danaan forest, its waters were the color of ink, even beneath the midday sun.
There were no settlements along the shore—the murky liquid was too foul and toxic to drink. No fish swam beneath the surface, and even the trees seemed to keep a distance, resulting in a wide band of barren soil that ringed the shoreline.
Andar didn’t like this place. There was something sinister about the lake beyond the poisonous waters—a malevolent power hidden below the surface. In ancient times, Danaan sorcerers had tried to study the Black Lake, but expeditions to plumb its mysterious depths had always ended with tragedy and death. The lake became anathema—a cursed location that the Danaan simply avoided. Until now.
At Orath’s urging, Rianna was preparing her people for war. The armies of the North Forest were massing; soon they would venture forth into the Frozen East on a crusade to reclaim the stolen Ring, crushing any who dared oppose them.
Andar had argued against such a course. He had tried to make his Queen understand that they needed to focus on rebuilding Ferlhame and securing their borders. But Rianna was deaf to his counsel, and she’d brushed his words aside.
“It’s time,” a thin, reedy voice whispered at Andar’s side, causing him to jump.
Orath had crept up silently behind him, flanked on either side by Draco and Gort, the companions he had mentioned upon first meeting the Queen. The High Sorcerer nodded in reply, doing his best to keep his expression from revealing the revulsion he felt every time the Minions were near.
As disconcerting as Orath’s unnatural appearance was, the other two were far more monstrous. The one called Gort was a bestial abomination—eight feet tall and covered in fur the color of dry blood. Its head was somewhere between human and simian though it was topped by a pair of stocky horns. Its body was thick with muscle and fat. Its long arms hung low, so that its savage four-inch claws reached almost to its knees, and a long, thin tail trailed behind, twitching and writhing.
The second—Draco—was a reptilian horror: the head of an alligator atop a humanoid body buried beneath heavy green scales. A pair of massive leather wings were folded close against its back. Unfurled, Andar imagined, they would evoke memories of the flying wyrm that had razed Ferlhame.
“Begin the preparations,” Orath instructed.
Neither Gort nor Draco ever spoke—whatever twisted mutations Chaos had wrought upon them had rendered them mute. But even after revealing his hideous allies, Orath still had the Queen’s ear. After listening to the Minion’s offer, Rianna had granted him authority second only to her own. Unwilling to betray his monarch, Andar had no choice but to obey.
He turned to address the assemblage of Danaan mages who had joined him on the shores of the Black Lake, subtlety calling on the power of Chaos to augment his voice.
“We are about to undertake a powerful and dangerous ritual,” he began. “We must be vigilant in our preparations; every detail must be precise and perfect. If we are careless or lax, we will unleash a terrible evil upon this land.”
There was no need to give further warning; the destruction of Ferlhame was still fresh in their minds. They understood the consequences if the ritual failed.
But, Andar silently wondered, what will the consequences be if we succeed?
Orath and the other Minions moved slowly among the Danaan mages as they painted arcane symbols of power on the dark, lifeless soil that encircled the lake, watching over their work with a highly critical eye.
He no longer projected the magical aura of authority and influence; after several days of meetings with the Queen and
her council his subtle spell had wormed itself deep into her psyche. She trusted him above all others now, and though the aura had been only a minor drain on his reserves, there was no point in wasting his power any more than he had to.
The Danaan did their best to ignore him and his two monstrous companions though he could sense their unease. Crouched on their hands and knees, they kept their eyes focused on their task, carefully transcribing the intricate runes into the earth. Occasionally they would stop to check for accuracy against the symbols on the parchments Orath had drawn for them, but otherwise they worked without pause.
Despite their apparent diligence, Orath was determined to personally inspect every rune. Spells of summoning were complicated; a single mistake could disrupt the ritual, allowing the beast that slumbered at the bottom of the Black Lake to break free from his control and turn against him.
It wasn’t that he feared betrayal; these mortals were like sheep—docile and mindlessly loyal to their Queen. But the Danaan weren’t well versed in rituals and spells. Chaos clung to the ancient trees of the North Forest, allowing the mages to call upon its power with relative ease. Those with the Gift didn’t need talismans, symbols, and words of power to perform magic; it came to them naturally and instinctively.
The coming ritual would be different. Waking the ogre required the power of Old Magic; without the proper safeguards the Chaos Orath needed to bind the monster to his will would surge out of control.
Though not as powerful as the dragon that had ravaged Ferlhame, the ogre was still a formidable foe—a mindless brute driven by insatiable hunger and unquenchable bloodlust. Unfettered, it would rip the Danaan limb from limb, devouring their quivering, still-warm flesh before turning its attention to Orath and the other Minions.
Together, he, Draco, and Gort might have the strength to defeat it, but even a victory would drain Orath’s slowly dwindling power. Cut off from the Sea of Fire by the Legacy, he would be weak and vulnerable, and he had no intention of putting himself in such a position. And they needed the ogre if they had any hope of reclaiming the Ring.
The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) Page 7