“This was once hallowed ground,” the barbarian added. “It was forbidden to spill blood here. But Pertor the Defiler violated the sanctity of the Gerscheld when he butchered his rivals during a parley.”
“The Inquisitors,” Scythe said, interrupting his tale and pointing back the way they had come.
Squinting in the gray light of the early morn, Keegan could just make out six figures on foot coming toward them. Their motions seemed purposeful, but controlled—as if they were walking briskly. But even at this distance he could tell they were moving with unnatural speed.
“Pertor’s betrayal cursed the once-hallowed ground,” Norr whispered. “Legend holds that any who come here now will know only suffering and death.”
“Good thing I’m not the superstitious type,” Scythe noted, breaking the awkward silence that followed her lover’s proclamation. “Otherwise I might take that as a bad omen.”
Jerrod knew they didn’t have much time to ready their defenses: the Inquisitors were only minutes from reaching the Gerscheld. The plateau was wide and open, with plenty of room for a battle—if they had an advantage in numbers, it would make sense to try to draw their enemy up and attack them from all sides.
But there were six Inquisitors and only five of them.
And the real odds are even worse than that.
With only one hand, and unable to summon Chaos, Keegan wouldn’t be much help. Vaaler still carried his rapier, but the Danaan’s movements were sluggish and groggy, as if he was still trying to shake off the effects of the blow that had rendered him unconscious only a few hours ago. In his current state, Jerrod doubted he’d be able to stand for long against even a single Inquisitor.
Norr’s size made him a formidable opponent, but the barbarian wasn’t armed—he hadn’t bothered to keep the heavy branch he’d used as a makeshift cudgel against the Danaan soldiers back in the North Forest. And Jerrod could tell his injuries from when the horses went down were hurting him more than he wanted to admit. His jaw had been clenched against the pain during their journey, his body was drenched with sweat, and his complexion was even paler than usual.
The twin blades Scythe used against her enemies were surprisingly effective; even Jerrod had been impressed with the savage fury she’d unleashed to dispatch the Danaan soldiers that had attacked them. But the Inquisitors were unlike any opponent she had ever faced. Her speed and quickness would be negated by their martial training and mystical Sight; they’d anticipate and counter her moves before she even made them.
Taking on all six at once is suicide.
There was another option. The winding path up the steep, treacherous slope narrowed sharply as it neared the top of the plateau. Jagged rock formations walling it on either side would effectively funnel their attackers into the tight quarters of the trail’s mouth. If they made a stand there, the Inquisitors wouldn’t be able to come at them all at once. At most they’d have to face two at a time.
But there won’t be room for all of us, either.
“Norr and I will hold the Inquisitors here at the top of the path,” Jerrod declared. “The rest of you fall back inside the stone circle.”
“Nice try,” Scythe snarled. “But I’m not sitting this one out.”
“No, he’s right,” Vaaler chimed in. “This is the only way up—if we hold them here, they can only come at us in pairs.
“I wish I had my bow,” he added bitterly. “I could pick them off while they were climbing up to the top.”
“It wouldn’t help,” Jerrod assured him. “They’d pluck your arrows right out of the air.”
“I always thought that was a myth,” Scythe muttered.
“Myths about the Inquisitors are usually less terrifying than the truth.”
“We’ll hold them as long as we can, but eventually they will take us down,” Jerrod continued. “When they do, you and Vaaler move forward to try to hold them.”
“Norr’s hurt,” Scythe protested. “It makes more sense to put me on the front line and have him in the back.”
“There’s no room in here for you to move,” Jerrod countered. “We need brute strength to hold this spot.”
“We don’t have time to argue, Scythe,” Norr said softly.
“Here,” Vaaler said, offering his weapon to the barbarian. “Take my sword.”
Norr shook his head. “I have not earned the right.”
“He never carries a weapon,” Scythe explained.
“I wouldn’t know how to use it, anyway,” Norr added. “I will fare better with my bare hands.”
“Here they come,” Keegan said, pointing with Rexol’s staff to the base of the hill.
The Inquisitors were already starting up the path, moving with alarming speed. They had pulled back the hoods of their heavy brown cloaks to reveal their shaved heads, and each was armed with a black, six-foot quarterstaff. With their gray, pupil-less eyes and hairless skulls, it was hard to visually distinguish between male and female, but Jerrod’s second sight told him there were four men and two women in the group.
“Get ready, Norr,” Jerrod said. “The rest of you fall back.”
Keegan and Vaaler did as ordered. Scythe hesitated a moment, then followed the others as they retreated to a safe distance.
Jerrod focused his mind and prepared for battle. He called on his internal reservoir of Chaos to bolster his strength, speed, and stamina. But instead of the surge of power he normally felt, he was rewarded with only a faint trickle of energy.
The Inquisitors continued their ascent, silent and menacing. They paused about fifteen feet from the top of the plateau, just before the path narrowed. One of the men stepped forward to address them.
“Jerrod: Yasmin the Unbowed has declared you and your companions as heretics of the Order. You have been condemned to death. We are here to carry out your sentence.”
The renegade monk didn’t recognize the speaker: he was young, a fresh face who must have risen to his position during the years Jerrod was in hiding.
“How are we condemned with no trial?” he countered, hoping to sow the seeds of doubt in his enemies. “Now that Yasmin is the Pontiff, has she abandoned the ancient laws of the Monastery?”
“The old ways have failed.” the monk replied. “The Monastery is in ruins. Now is the time for righteous action!”
Why are the young always so much more zealous in their fanaticism? Jerrod wondered. And then the Inquisitors fell on them.
As he’d hoped, only two of the Inquisitors were able to press forward while the rest were forced to hang back. Jerrod and Norr stepped forward to meet them, and everything became a blur.
The staves of the Inquisitors whirled and spun, lashing out with quick, hard strikes. Jerrod countered by dodging or redirecting each attack with a hand or forearm and trying to get in close to unleash a volley of kicks, elbows, and knees. His opponent countered by twisting away, jabbing out with the butt of his quarterstaff to throw Jerrod off balance and forcing him to stumble back. The extra space allowed the Inquisitor to reset and make another pass with the spinning staff, and once again Jerrod responded with a series of parries and blocks that flowed into another series of counterattacks.
The Inquisitor staggered back, and for a brief instant there was an opening for Jerrod to deal a crippling blow. But he was a fraction of a second too slow to seize the opportunity, and instead of driving his foot through the knee of his enemy and dislocating it, he only managed to deal a painful kick to the shin.
Jerrod was fighting in a fugue. He felt slow and sluggish. His attacks lacked precision, and his defense seemed haphazard and careless. Even his awareness of what was going on around him felt muddled and cloudy.
Fortunately, the Inquisitors were as slow and sluggish as Jerrod. It blunted their fury and prolonged what should have been a quick victory.
Beside him, Jerrod was dimly aware of Norr struggling but somehow holding his own against an overwhelming foe. Too big and too slow to avoid the monk’s quarterstaff, Norr ab
sorbed the full force of the punishing strikes with his meaty arms and shoulders, grunting in pain with each hit. But he refused to give ground, grasping and clawing with his massive paws to try to grab either his opponent or the weapon that slammed into him over and over.
Realizing the giant had the strength to crush the life from him with his bare hands, the monk facing Norr was being overly cautious. Instead of darting in to deal an incapacitating blow to the head or face, he was staying on the fringes of the battle and out of the barbarian’s reach. Eventually Norr would succumb to the steady stream of crushing blows, but it would be a long, slow, brutal defeat.
Jerrod’s focus snapped back to his own predicament just in time to react to an unexpected ploy from his opponent. Thrusting forward with the quarterstaff, the Inquisitor suddenly let go of his weapon and leapt at Jerrod, knowing that if he tackled him to the ground, the others would be able to rush up and join the fray. His fingers closed around the collar of Jerrod’s shirt, clutching tightly as the Inquisitor snapped his head and shoulders back in an effort to yank Jerrod off balance.
Instead of fighting against it, Jerrod threw himself forward, using the momentum of his foe to transition into a forward flip. At the same time he twisted in the air and brought his fist up into the throat of his enemy. The glancing blow didn’t crush the Inquisitor’s trachea as Jerrod had intended, but it had enough force to make him loosen his grip.
Jerrod landed on his feet, his enemy prone between his legs, coughing and sputtering for air. But before Jerrod could finish him off, one of the other Inquisitors leapt forward to defend her fallen companion. The quarterstaff whistled as it sliced the air in a series of short, savage arcs aimed at Jerrod’s head. He ducked out of the way and fell into a backward roll, scooping up the abandoned quarterstaff of his first opponent.
He came up on his knees, the quarterstaff clutched in both hands as he parried a blow meant to cave in his skull. A quick sweep of his leg forced his opponent to spring back, and Jerrod scrambled to his feet.
The monk came at him again, the quarterstaves clacking and cracking as Jerrod repelled her assault and counterattacked. But even though he was now armed, Jerrod knew the battle was slipping away. Fatigue was already taking its toll on his limbs, and he was facing a fresh opponent. The Inquisitor he’d struck in the throat was back on his feet, coughing and gasping for breath but otherwise unharmed. In another minute he’d be fully recovered and ready to step in again whenever one of his compatriots began to tire.
They don’t need to break through to the plateau, Jerrod realized. They just need to wear us down.
In the instant of his grim realization, Norr’s balky leg gave out, and the big man went down. The Inquisitor sprang forward to finish him, only to have the killing blow knocked aside by Vaaler’s blade as the Danaan leapt into the fray. A second later Scythe was there, too.
Her slim form darted in close, the early-morning sun glittering off the thin blade in each hand. Her knives flickered and danced and the Inquisitor screamed as Scythe slashed open deep gashes in his face and hands.
One of the blades sliced across a milky eye; a devastating blow to a normal opponent, but barely more than a superficial wound against one that used the Sight to perceive the world. But the ferocity of her attack drove the Inquisitor back, and Norr was able to regain his feet with Vaaler’s help.
As Scythe pressed her advantage, Norr and Vaaler fell back, simultaneously giving her room to operate and giving themselves a chance to catch their breath.
Jerrod and his opponent had fallen into the familiar rhythm of battle—an ebb and flow as she attacked, he parried and countered, only to have her reverse the momentum and attack again. He was fighting on instinct now, falling into patterns ingrained into his muscles by years of training at the Monastery.
He knew he needed to focus and do something to break the pattern. But it was hard to concentrate with Scythe fighting beside him. In the mind’s eye of his mystical Sight, she was little more than a savage blur. She seemed to flicker and flash from place to place in unexpected and unpredictable ways, disorienting and overwhelming her enemy.
The Inquisitor staggered back, bleeding from a dozen deep cuts. Scythe lunged forward, and he dropped his staff and threw his hands up to protect his throat from her deadly knives. At the last instant Scythe turned her wrist and changed the angle of her blade. Instead of carving across the flesh as she’d been doing, she drove the tip into the chest of her foe. Her aim was perfect. The blade slipped between the ribs and bit deep into the Inquisitor’s heart, snuffing out his life.
Jerrod expected another to leap forward and take his place, but instead, the Inquisitor he was fighting disengaged and fell back.
They weren’t expecting this kind of resistance. They’re retreating.
Unwilling to let them get away, Scythe started forward in pursuit.
Before Jerrod could call out a warning, Norr’s voice rose up in a deafening cry.
“Don’t, Scythe! It’s a trap!”
She pulled up short at his words and shook her head, dispelling the bloodlust that had almost betrayed her.
Never taking their eyes off the enemies atop the plateau, the Inquisitors slowly backed down the path until they reached the bottom.
Scythe watched them go, then turned and spat on the corpse of the man she’d killed.
“Told you we could take them,” she hissed, a feral grin on her face.
“Their retreat is an empty victory,” Jerrod muttered.
“Why do you say that?” Keegan asked, wandering over from the stone circle where he’d watched the battle unfold.
“Now they’ll just wait us out,” Vaaler explained glumly, recognizing their plight. “That path is the only way down. We have no food. No water. And no way to escape.”
Chapter 5
Above Cassandra the dark clouds gathered, and she heard the rumble of thunder. She quickened her pace, knowing there was nowhere on the empty plain to seek shelter from the coming storm. The sky above was a mantle of darkness, too thick even for her Sight to pierce. Yet inside she could sense her enemy lurking, waiting to plunge down and rip the Crown from her grasp.
A hard rain began to fall, pelting her with cold water and stinging hail. A jagged bolt of blue lightning split the sky and arced toward the ground. Just beside Cassandra, the earth exploded, and the shock of the impact knocked her from her feet.
Confused and disoriented, she somehow managed to keep hold of the Crown. Rising to her knees, she saw a dark figure swoop down from the clouds—the Minion that had hunted her across the Frozen East. The creature had the body of a naked woman, but its skin was black and featureless—like a shadow come to life. It had the wings and head of a bird of prey; its fingers were long, sharp talons; its eyes burned red.
When it touched the ground, however, it transformed. The wings melted away and the body began to shift and shimmer, taking on the form of a woman Cassandra knew well.
“Give me the Crown,” Yasmin said.
The tall woman towered over Cassandra, standing straight against the driving rain, seemingly oblivious as the hail struck her on the face and the scarred skin of her naked scalp.
“The Pontiff gave the Crown to me,” Cassandra protested, pulling the Talisman close against her chest.
“Nazir is dead,” Yasmin reminded her. “The Monastery is fallen. Because of your actions, I am the Pontiff now.”
She stretched out her hand, palm up.
“Give me the Crown.”
Cassandra shook her head.
“You are a traitor to our cause,” Yasmin whispered. “A heretic. For that you must be punished.”
Yasmin stepped back and lifted her arms to the sky. A ring of fire burst forth from the ground, encircling Cassandra. The flames hissed as the rain struck them, but instead of being extinguished, they grew higher.
Cassandra felt the heat as the fire slowly closed in. There was only one escape, one way out. With trembling hands she placed the Crown ato
p her head … and the world exploded.
Cassandra woke with a start, heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst through the bones of her chest. Her body was soaked in sweat, and even though it was blessedly warm in the Guardian’s cave, she shivered.
“There is nothing to fear here,” the deep voice of the Guardian reassured her. “It was only a nightmare.”
Cassandra nodded. She was a prophet of the Order; she knew the difference between a nightmare and a vision.
This was no prophecy. But it was more than an ordinary dream.
“Are you hungry?” the Guardian asked.
In response to his words, or possibly the scent of stew cooking over the fire near the rear of the cave, Cassandra’s stomach grumbled. She crawled out of her bedroll and crossed the cave in silence, her mind still trying to make sense of her dream.
The Guardian was hunched over the fire near the entrance of the cave, his back to the swirling snows of the blizzard outside. The orange glow emanating from the flames cast a strange light across the blue skin of his naked, heavily muscled chest. Despite the howling wind just beyond the open mouth of his lair, no draft dared enter to disturb the warmth inside.
As she approached him, the Guardian stood and stretched, rising to his full fifteen feet and reaching up so that his massive hands nearly scraped the uneven rock ceiling. Though one of the Chaos Spawn, he appeared human save for his blue skin and massive size, though Cassandra had never seen any mortal man so exquisite.
His features were sharp and defined—the hard line of his square jaw framed by a short black beard, his eyes piercing and dark. He was naked except for a black fur loincloth and hard black boots that came halfway up his massive calves. As he stretched his arms up to the ceiling, the muscles of his perfectly proportioned limbs rippled and flexed, and Cassandra had to stop herself from letting out an awestruck gasp.
She knew there was more to the Guardian’s unearthly beauty than mere physical perfection. There was an ancient wisdom in his eyes and a calm yet unyielding strength in his words when he spoke. He radiated an aura that made her feel safe and secure, and she knew that as long as she stayed under his protection nothing could harm her.
The Scorched Earth Page 4