The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born)
Page 24
Armed with the Sword, he had the strength to stand alone against any mortal army. But the creatures bearing down on him weren’t mortal, and they were legion. This was his desperate, doomed final stand against overwhelming odds. He could stain the beach with the blood of a thousand foes, but in the end he would fall. Death was inevitable.
And then the moment of stasis ended with a crack of thunder, and the horde fell upon him.
Keegan woke with a sudden start, his heart pounding and his breath coming in short, quick gasps. The terror of the dream clouded his mind, and he struggled to make sense of the darkness and bodies pressed close around him for several seconds before he realized where he was.
We’re on our way to the Conclave.
They’d covered a lot of ground in only three days despite having to tow Norr in addition to the supply sleds. They left early each morning and marched well past dark, though sunset came quite early with winter looming in the east.
At night the sleds were arranged in a circle around the campsite, and several thick blankets were strung up between them to serve as makeshift walls to keep the wind out. Then each individual would wrap themselves in layers of furs and bed down for the night, all of them sharing the same space inside the ring. With nearly thirty men and women in their group it made for cramped quarters, but the heat from all the bodies huddled so close together did wonders to ward off the chill.
Jerrod lay close on one side, Norr on the other. He knew Scythe would be pressed up close against the big man, too. Despite Norr being the new clan chief, they were still Outlanders; they still stuck together. Even Vaaler still slept close to them; Keegan could hear him snoring just across from Jerrod.
Fortunately, none of them seemed to realize Keegan had woken up. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his still-racing heart.
Despite never having seen it before, he recognized the Sword from his dream.
Not a dream. A vision.
Though he couldn’t remember any of the details of the young woman lying at his feet, every detail of the perfectly forged blade was still absolutely clear. The power he’d felt coursing through him as he clutched the hilt left little doubt that the weapon was one of the three Talismans given to Daemron. Along with the Ring and the Crown, it had transformed him into an Immortal and given him the power to challenge the Gods themselves.
But it didn’t give me the strength to stop the Slayer’s army.
Jerrod would want to know about the dream, but Keegan wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him. How would Jerrod react if Keegan told him he saw a vision of his own failure?
He’ll probably just brush it aside.
It seemed as if nothing could shake the monk’s belief. He’d be more likely to see the dream as something positive, like the Sword’s calling to Keegan, just as the Ring had called to him in the Danaan forest.
When I answered that call, I woke a dragon and left Ferlhame in ruins.
The fanatical monk might not feel any regret over the Danaan blood he had spilled, but Keegan wasn’t eager to bring similar destruction down on Norr’s people.
This isn’t like my vision of the Ring, anyway, he rationalized.
That dream had been so intense, it had burned an indelible image into his mind; even after waking he could still feel the Talisman’s presence nearby. He didn’t feel the same connection to the Sword, though he did feel something.
It was possible the Sword worked differently than the Ring. Or maybe it was simply too far away for him to sense it clearly.
So why did you dream about this now? Are we getting closer to it?
The more he thought about it, the more he felt the visions were more like the dreams he’d had in his youth. A prophecy. A warning. A glimpse into one of many possible futures, far in the distance.
A future I want to avoid.
Jerrod wasn’t the only one he could talk to about it, of course. Vaaler might be able to help him interpret or better understand the vision. But he’d barely spoken to Vaaler since they’d left the main Stone Spirit camp three days ago. Even if he did tell Vaaler about the dream, the Danaan would probably just see it as more proof of how arrogant and selfish Keegan was becoming.
In the wake of their second argument, Vaaler had taken to spending most of his free time with Shalana. The former chief was almost as much an outsider as Keegan and his friends; none of the other members of the clan seemed to talk with her beyond what was necessary. Keegan half expected to see her sleeping next to Vaaler one night, but so far she’d stayed with her own people when bedding down.
Probably wants to keep as far away from Scythe as possible.
The thought brought his final option to mind, but there wasn’t much point in telling Scythe or Norr. Norr already had enough on his mind, dealing with the pressures of being chief and speculating on the as-yet-unknown reasons behind the Conclave.
As for Scythe, Keegan admitted, he simply didn’t want to tell her. She’d embraced the idea that he was a wizard; she’d been more than happy to have him use magic to help Norr. But he knew she was still uncomfortable around Jerrod and all his talk of Keegan’s destiny as a savior. Telling her about the dream might unsettle her.
But what if the dream affects her, too? What if she was the woman on the beach?
Try as he might, Keegan couldn’t remember anything about the figure at his feet. He couldn’t recall her hair, or her skin, or any kind of identifying feature other than the fact that she was female. He didn’t even know if she was alive or dead.
If he mentioned all this to Scythe, there was a good chance he might push her farther away.
How could she be any farther away? We’ve barely spoken since she kissed me.
On some level, he knew Vaaler was right—the kiss really didn’t mean anything. And if he brought it up to Scythe, he knew she’d make that clear. So rather than have his illusion stripped away, he clung to it like a child with a favorite toy.
Nobody needs to know about this. Not yet.
Keegan rolled over onto his side, careful not to wake the others. His rambling introspections hadn’t done much to help him understand his vision, but they’d distracted him long enough for his pounding heart to calm itself. Without the fear and adrenaline pumping through him, exhaustion from the day’s march took over and he soon slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The sled was gliding smoothly over the snow, but Vaaler was still struggling to match Shalana’s pace as they pulled it along behind them.
Everyone in the Stone Spirit company headed for the Conclave took a turn each day towing one of the supply sleds, except for Norr. However, it was his knee, not his rank as chief, that kept him from helping out.
The first couple days Vaaler had stepped in to help Shalana because he feared nobody else would. It was possible for one person to pull a sled alone, but it was a grueling task. And given Shalana’s injuries, Vaaler was worried she might fall behind.
If that happened, someone else would probably step up to give her a hand, but Vaaler suspected that would only add to the shame and humiliation she was already carrying. It was possible having an Outlander helping you was just as bad, but if so, Shalana didn’t say anything.
She hadn’t said much at all the first two days, despite Vaaler’s attempts to engage her in conversation. Vaaler chalked it up to the extra effort it required for her to keep up with the others while she was still recovering rather than resentment at his constant presence or confusion because of his imperfect command of her native language.
Obviously, though, Shalana was a quick healer. He’d noticed the spring in her step as soon as they took the tow ropes this morning, and her long legs were churning up the distance at a furious pace.
“Are we trying to ditch the others?” Vaaler asked once she had pushed them to the front of the caravan.
“Would they even notice if we did?” she countered.
He suspected there was an underlying bitterness in the sentiment, but it didn’t creep into her voice. The
words were delivered in an emotionless monotone that Vaaler was starting to recognize as her style of making a joke.
“For my sake, could we just slow down a bit?” he asked, already breathing hard.
“Of course, Spy. All I want is to make things easier for you.”
Despite her words, she did pull back slightly.
“Why don’t you use dogs for this?” Vaaler asked, once he’d settled into the new, more comfortable, pace.
“Dogs need to be fed. Trained. Cared for.”
“The expense isn’t worth it?”
“Not for stronger tribes who’ve established large camps,” she explained. “But the weaker tribes can’t defend a permanent settlement. They have to keep moving all the time. Some of them still choose to use dogs for the sleds.”
“So it’s a status thing, then? You’d rather pull the sled yourself than lose face by letting dogs do the work for you?”
“If you get too close to the dogs, they can take over the clan.”
“Like the Ice Fangs?”
Shalana nodded. “The Ice Fangs love their animals too much. Calling a dog a ‘pet’ in their clan is insult enough to end in bloodshed.”
“So what do they call them?”
“Brother. Sister. Husband or wife when the nights get lonely.”
For a second Vaaler thought he’d misunderstood, then he realized Shalana was making another of her deadpan jokes.
Her expression doesn’t really change, but her eyes get this little twinkle as she watches for a reaction.
“If that’s how you talk about other clans,” Vaaler said, smiling at the jest, “I don’t think I want to know what you say about my people.”
“I’ve heard that the Tree Folk men have a tiny twig where there should be a mighty trunk,” she shot back without missing a beat.
“Uh, let’s change the subject,” Vaaler suggested, blushing despite himself. “What do the clans say about the people in the Free Cities?”
“We call them butchers and wish for them to suffer a slow and painful death.”
This time he was pretty sure there was no intended humor in her statement.
The Free Cities consider the Easterners to be barbarians and savages, Vaaler recalled from his history lessons. They used to hunt them for sport or send out raiding parties to butcher as many as they could find.
Shalana’s grim reply effectively killed the conversation, and Vaaler cursed himself for saying something so stupid and culturally insensitive.
She was just starting to open up to me, too.
After a few minutes of silent trudging through the snow, however, it was Shalana who broke the stillness.
“I’ve never met one of the Tree Folk before,” she admitted. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Really?” Vaaler said, trying not to smile. “And what did you expect?”
“I thought your skin would be green as grass, and your hair as tangled as a bird’s nest.”
There actually was a greenish brown tinge to the Danaan complexion, but it was rather subtle. Despite this, the green-skinned Tree Folk was a common stereotype in the Southlands. The hair thing, however, was something Vaaler hadn’t heard of before.
“As children, we were warned never to go into the North Forest or the savage Dwellers would eat us,” Shalana continued.
“So you thought the Danaan were monsters?”
“In some of the older legends,” Shalana explained, “your people are described as too wild and uncivilized to even wear clothes.”
“I guess that’s where the whole twig-trunk rumor came from, right?” Vaaler noted with a grin.
Shalana didn’t actually smile in response, but he caught the mischievous twinkle in her eye.
They lapsed into silence for a while before she spoke again.
“Norr said you were a prince among your people. He said you were exiled for helping him and the others escape the Forest.”
Vaaler was momentarily caught off guard by her admission. He wondered how much more Norr had told her.
Surely he wouldn’t be foolish enough to mention the Ring?
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Vaaler muttered. As much as he was enjoying Shalana’s company on the trip, he wasn’t ready to go into something so personal and painful with her.
She glanced over at him, her expression softening slightly. But instead of offering empty words of comfort, she simply nodded, and said, “I understand.”
I bet you do, Vaaler thought, grateful she let the matter drop. I bet you do.
Scythe’s attention was split between the sled carrying Norr at the rear of the Stone Spirit convoy and the lead sled, where Shalana and Vaaler were getting far too friendly for her comfort.
She knew better than to say anything to Norr. Every time Scythe brought her up, her lover accused her of being jealous.
He still thinks of her as the childhood friend he grew up with. He can’t even imagine her as any kind of threat.
Scythe knew better. Her gut told her not to trust Shalana, and she’d learned to trust her gut. And if Norr wouldn’t listen to her concerns, she knew someone else who would.
“I’m going to check on Keegan and Jerrod,” she told Norr.
He nodded but didn’t reply. He barely spoke at all while riding on the sled; instead, he sat with his arms crossed and a miserable scowl on his face, glaring at the backs of whoever was taking a turn pulling him.
Despite the extra burden of her petulant lover, there was no shortage of volunteers eager to grab one of the three tow ropes hooked up to the supply sled he rode atop. The younger warriors chosen to join him and his thanes at the Conclave considered it an honor to drag the Red Bear across mile after mile of frozen wasteland.
For Norr, however, it was humiliating torture. Each morning he and Scythe argued about the need for him to stay off his knee. So far, she’d managed to win each time.
He’s as stubborn about that as he is about Shalana, Scythe thought as she broke into a light jog and moved up the line of the caravan.
Jerrod and Keegan were walking off to one side, close to the middle of the line. She knew they’d taken a turn hauling one of the sleds already this morning before the group had stopped briefly for lunch. It hadn’t escaped her eye that Vaaler and Shalana had spent the break sitting close together, chattering away as they downed their food.
Scythe took a quick look for Jerrod’s language tutor, confirming that he was up near the front of the line, close to Norr—their lessons were usually limited to the evenings. None of the other Stone Spirits around them were those Norr had identified as understanding Allrish, meaning she didn’t have to worry about someone’s overhearing their conversation.
“I need to talk to you two,” she said, forgoing any preamble.
“What do you want?” Keegan asked sharply.
“It’s Vaaler,” she said, ignoring the unexpected hostility of the young mage’s tone. “He’s spending a lot of time with Shalana.”
“I noticed this as well,” Jerrod said. “He seems to be avoiding our company for hers.”
“So? Who cares who he’s talking with?”
Scythe couldn’t help but be taken aback by the peevishness of Keegan’s reply. What’s gotten him in such a bad mood?
“I’m worried he might be getting too close to her,” Scythe explained after taking a second to compose herself. “I don’t trust her. Not as far as I could throw her sorry ass.”
“Maybe Vaaler feels the same way,” Jerrod offered. “He might just be trying to keep a close eye on her.”
“I don’t think so,” Keegan said. “I think he just feels bad for her because …” He trailed off, glancing first at Scythe then over to Jerrod. “Because of what happened to her after she lost the duel,” he concluded lamely.
Scythe rolled her eyes.
“He knows about the curse,” she said, jabbing her thumb in Jerrod’s direction.
“You know?” Keegan said, confused. “And you don’t care?”
Scythe groaned softly; she’d already heard this speech.
“Their fate is intertwined with yours,” Jerrod continued. “They each have a role to play in your destiny.”
“What does this have to do with the curse?” Keegan asked, glancing over at Scythe, then quickly looking away when she met his eye.
“The three of you worked together to call upon the Chaos for your spell,” Jerrod told him. “Each playing a vital role. Vaaler brought you the knowledge of how to control your power, and Scythe was the catalyst that inspired you to attempt it.”
“Give the prophecy pitch a rest for a few minutes,” Scythe said impatiently. “We’re talking about Vaaler, remember? What if he accidentally lets something slip while he’s talking to Shalana? What if she finds out what we did?”
“He’s not stupid,” Keegan told her. “He’s not going to just blurt something like that out.”
“But if he feels guilt over what we did, it could eat away at him until he feels like he has to say something,” Scythe argued. “Secrets have a way of bubbling to the surface.”
“Sounds like you’re really talking about you and Norr,” Keegan noted.
“My relationship with Norr is just fine,” Scythe disdainfully assured him.
“Then why did you kiss me?” Keegan shot back.
“Is that why you’re mad at me?” Scythe demanded. “It was just a kiss. Stop being such a child!”
“Keep your voices down!” Jerrod warned.
Scythe glanced over her shoulder at the nearby Stone Spirits. Even if they couldn’t understand what was being said, they had clearly noticed the tension between the Outlanders.
“You manipulated me into casting that curse,” Keegan accused though he did lower his voice. “Even Jerrod just said so!”
“That’s not exactly how I described it,” the monk cautioned.
“How did this become about you?” Scythe wanted to know. “How come it always seems to be about you? You need to stop listening to White Eyes telling you what a big deal you are. It’s gone to your head!”