The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  Soon the Crawling Twins would arrive. Unlike Raven, Erus and Cerus would not hesitate to challenge the Guardian. Together, they might defeat him though she suspected the battle would destroy them as well. She was not so willing to throw her life away. But if she could find some way to defeat the Guardian and claim both the Sword and the Crown for Daemron, she wouldn’t just be returned to favor—she might even usurp Orath’s position at the Slayer’s right hand.

  Until then, she would bide her time, dwelling among the locals and waiting for her chance to strike.

  Berlen caught his first glimpse of the lone figure as the snow began to fall. From a distance, she seemed attractive: tall and broad-shouldered, with long, unbraided black hair fanning out behind her in the wind.

  Seeing she wasn’t armed, he broke into a run and closed the distance between them. Fifteen feet away he stopped, but the challenge he was about to call out died on his lips as the woman suddenly whirled around to face him.

  Up close, he could see that his first impression was right: She was attractive. Beautiful, even. But there was something in the sharp features of her face that chilled him to the bone. Her eyes were cold and empty, and her expression was one of hateful contempt.

  The warrior shook his head to dispel the irrational fear: the woman was half his size and wasn’t carrying any kind of weapon.

  “Who dares enter the land of the Sun Blade clan without permission?” he demanded.

  The woman tilted her head to the side and her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to understand the meaning of his words.

  “Who are you?” Berlen repeated, gripping his spear tightly with both hands and holding the tip out toward her, waist high. “What clan are you from?”

  Slowly, the woman began to walk toward him, her head tilting slowly from side to side like a hungry hawk contemplating its next meal.

  Resisting the urge to take a step back, Berlen held his ground.

  “Stop right there!” he shouted, raising the spear a few inches. “No closer!”

  Either she didn’t understand him, or she was ignoring him. Whatever the explanation, the tall woman continued to walk toward him.

  Letting loose a battle roar, Berlen stepped forward and thrust the spear into the woman’s midsection. The tip dove through her fur vest and plunged into her stomach, burying itself several inches deep.

  The woman stopped her advance but didn’t scream or cry out. She didn’t fall to the ground, but instead wrapped her hands around the shaft of the spear protruding from her gut and slowly began to pull it out.

  Berlen was still gripping the other end of the weapon, and he tried to resist by shoving the spear deeper into his adversary. But the woman barely noticed his attempt as she effortlessly slid the tip free. With a quick flick of her wrist she wrenched the shaft from Berlen’s grasp and casually tossed the weapon aside.

  The barbarian staggered back, his eyes transfixed by the gaping hole in her stomach. Ragged bits of flesh dangled down from the fist-sized puncture, but instead of blood gushing out, there was only a slow trickle of black ooze.

  Following his gaze, the woman looked down at her wound. Then she grasped it by the dangling flaps of skin on either side and slowly began to pull it apart. There was a sick, wet sound as the tissue ripped, and she tilted her head back and screamed—a hideous, inhuman screech.

  Berlen dropped to his knees and pressed his hands over his ears as blood began to drip from his nose. The woman continued to tear at her own flesh, peeling it off in great, dripping chunks. In seconds everything human had been stripped away, revealing a living shadow nightmare beneath: a naked, muscular woman with perfectly smooth, black skin and the head and great unfurling wings of a bird.

  Scrambling on his hands and knees, Berlen tried to flee. But the shadow fell on him, ripping and tearing with vicious claws instead of fingers. Seizing his shoulder, it flipped him over so that he was facing the sky. Then a hooked talon sliced horizontally across Berlen’s belly, carving a long, wide gash. The other hand plunged inside, seized his innards, and ripped them free, sending Berlen into shock.

  Still alive, he lay paralyzed and helpless on the ground as the horror gorged itself on his stomach and intestines. The stench of his own eviscerated bowels wafted up into Berlen’s nostrils, causing him to gag and retch. The mutilated remnants of his stomach reflexively clenched and a wave of agonizing pain sent his body into spastic convulsions.

  After a few seconds the shadow broke off its gruesome feast and crouched beside him, tiny red eyes peering out over its cruelly curved beak as his seizures slowly passed.

  Closing his eyes, Berlen silently prayed for death as his body finally went still. Before the merciful darkness could take him, a clawed hand seized him by the top of the head, two talons plunging deep into his skull.

  Berlen’s eyes snapped open and his jaw stretched in a silent scream as the monster began to feed on his memories. Ravenous, it took everything: his language, his culture, his clan, his friends, his family, and even his own identity were all stripped away.

  When the creature finally finished and stepped away, all that was left of Berlen was a quivering lump of mindless flesh. Still technically alive, he saw but didn’t register as the creature crouched low to the ground, its arms wrapped around its knees, a huddled lump of blackness on the white snow.

  Gurgling and choking on the blood crawling up into his throat as the last of his life spilled out of his mangled stomach, his eyes blinked instinctively as the shadow was enveloped in an intense green light. When the light vanished seconds later, his stripped and ravaged mind couldn’t even recognize that the monster had transformed into a perfect replica of himself.

  His doppelgänger picked up the fallen spear and came to stand over him.

  “Good-bye, Berlen,” it said in the big man’s own voice, though he no longer recognized the language of his own people.

  And then it plunged the spear into his heart, ending his suffering.

  The hunt was over and Berlen had still not returned. Roggen was on the verge of taking two of the others and setting off to look for him when the big man finally appeared, his unmistakable silhouette walking slowly through the falling snow toward them.

  “What happened?” Roggen asked, setting aside the knife he’d been using to skin the elk at his feet.

  Berlen didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes flickered down to the bloody carcass on the snow.

  “Where’s the woman?” Roggen demanded, trying to snap him out of his stupor. “Did you find her?”

  The big man turned his head away from the kill, and for an instant Roggen half imagined his eyes weren’t their normal blue, but rather a bright, fiery red.

  “She attacked me,” Berlen said, speaking slowly. “She was … mad. I had to kill her. I had no choice.”

  “Did she say anything?” Roggen asked. “Anything that might tell us who she was?”

  Berlen shook his head. “She was a Southlander,” he said. “A young blond woman.”

  Something about the whole situation felt very wrong to Roggen, but he wasn’t sure why. It almost felt like Berlen was lying, but he couldn’t come up with any reason for his friend to do so.

  “Maybe we should go examine the body,” he wondered aloud. “Maybe there’s some clue as to who she was or why she was here.”

  “The storm won’t hold off much longer,” Berlen countered. “We should finish dressing the kill and get the meat back to the camp.”

  “You’re right,” Roggen agreed after a moment’s consideration. “We have more important things to worry about.

  “Give me a hand,” he added, dropping to one knee, his suspicions swept away by his desire to finish skinning his kill before the storm hit.

  Chapter 7

  FROM ATOP THE plateau, Scythe watched the rays of the early-evening sun crawling away from them toward the distant horizon. The temperature was already beginning to drop as the sun retreated, and dark storm clouds were rolling in. Remembering t
he frigid chill of the previous nights, she pressed herself close against Norr. The barbarian responded by wrapping his massive arms around her, swallowing her up.

  She reveled in the heat of his fleshy embrace, knowing he would soon have to abandon her to take a turn on watch in case the Inquisitors camped below tried to sneak up on them under the cover of night.

  Not very damn likely. Not when they can just wait us out.

  They’d been trapped on the Gerscheld for three days now. They passed their time in silence. They had no food and no water, and there was nothing important enough to say that was worth wasting the spit required to speak. The only sound was the rumbling of their empty stomachs—a pointless objection by their bodies. They all knew they’d die of dehydration long before starvation took them. It was hard to imagine a worse way to go.

  On the second day the fog that had surrounded them since leaving the Danaan forest had lifted, swept away by a harsh eastern front bringing the year’s first real taste of winter. That night they huddled against the stones for shelter, shivering as the icy wind whipped across the plateau, bringing with it a burst of half-frozen rain. Pelted by the stinging drops, Scythe decided dying of thirst might be preferable to succumbing to exposure and hypothermia.

  Perched high above the surrounding terrain, the temperature atop the Gerscheld had to feel twenty degrees colder than what the Inquisitors were dealing with down below. The conditions made sleep almost impossible, and by morning the hours of uncontrollable shivering had left her feeling utterly exhausted.

  Today had been spent much like the first two—grim and silent as they waited for the inevitable: hungry, thirsty, and very, very cold. Every few hours another storm would roll through, bringing more rain and sleet. With another night rapidly approaching and more dark clouds looming in the distance, Scythe knew they couldn’t hold out much longer.

  She cast her gaze over the others, taking in the hopelessness and defeat etched on their features. Then her eyes fell on Keegan. The frail wizard lay on his side, huddled in a tight ball pressed up against the edge of one of the standing stones. He hadn’t moved since the morning. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Every few minutes his body would jerk or twitch and a soft, pitiful moan would escape his lips. Otherwise he was still and silent as the dead.

  He might not make it to morning, Scythe realized. And in another couple of days, we’ll all be in the same state.

  Summoning the last of her reserves, Scythe shook off the deadweight of Norr’s arms and struggled to her feet.

  “I’m not going out like this,” she declared. “Not while I’ve still got strength enough left to take one or two of those Inquisitors down with me.”

  The men stared at her in silence. Then Norr slowly stood up beside her.

  “We will die like warriors,” he vowed, gently placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  Scythe patted his hand, grateful to know they would face their end together. Then she turned to Vaaler. He met her eye and gave her a slight nod, then rose to his feet as well. To her surprise, Jerrod joined them a moment later.

  “I thought you’d try to talk me out of it,” she told him.

  “When all hope is lost, it doesn’t matter if we walk the path of a fool,” he answered, and Scythe couldn’t help but smile.

  “What’s our best strategy?” Vaaler asked. “Wait until nightfall and try to surprise them in the dark?”

  “The Inquisitors are disciples of the Order,” Jerrod reminded him. “Once the sun goes down you will struggle to see, but our Sight will be unhindered.”

  “I say we just charge down the path and try to catch them off guard,” Scythe suggested. “Hit ’em hard and fast.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere,” Keegan croaked.

  His voice caused all of them to jump in surprise; Scythe had thought he’d slipped away into unconsciousness.

  The young man didn’t rise to his feet. He barely had the strength to sit up. His face was pale, his eyes glassy. But his voice was stronger when he spoke again.

  “We need to wait.”

  “If we wait, we die,” Scythe explained, speaking slowly as if to a confused child. “A slow, agonizing death. At least if we fight, the end will come quickly.”

  “Help is coming,” Keegan countered. “I can see them.”

  Scythe tipped her head back to stare out at the vast emptiness of the tundra surrounding them. From the vantage point of the plateau they could see miles in every direction. Her eyes were sharp; she studied the landscape closely, turning slowly in a full circle, watching for signs of movement.

  “I’ve been watching all day,” Vaaler whispered, quiet enough that Keegan couldn’t overhear. “There’s nobody out there.”

  Scythe stepped away from the others and came over to crouch down beside the young mage.

  “Nobody’s coming to help us,” she told him. “We’re alone.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Keegan insisted. “Wolves.”

  “Wolves?” Scythe asked.

  “Wolves,” he insisted. “A pack of wolves, coming to save us. I’ve seen them in my dreams. The pack leaders walk on two legs.”

  “Wolves that walk on two legs?” Scythe said, shaking her head in confusion.

  “He’s probably hallucinating,” Vaaler offered.

  “Maybe not,” Norr chimed in. “Some of the clans use dogs to hunt game. The Pack Masters run with their animals. We call them the wolves with two legs.”

  “Is that what you saw, Keegan?” Jerrod asked, coming over to join Scythe. “Are Norr’s people coming to help us?”

  Scythe rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  “Is this how your prophets see the future?” she demanded. “A few mumbled words, and you feed them a story you hope is true?”

  “They’re coming,” Keegan repeated. Then his eyes flickered and closed, and he slumped forward.

  Jerrod caught him and lowered him gently to lie flat on the cold ground. Keegan gave no indication he was aware of what was happening.

  “Is this possible?” Vaaler asked after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, directing his question at Norr. “Are your people coming to help us?”

  “This is not the territory of my people,” the big man explained. “But none of the clans like outsiders. The Pack Masters patrol this region; they protect it. They will see the Inquisitors as a threat that must be dealt with.”

  “If they even know we’re here,” Scythe objected. “You’re all jumping to conclusions.”

  “Keegan is a True Prophet,” Jerrod declared, turning away from the unconscious young man. “What he sees will come to pass.”

  “So we just sit around and wait?” Scythe asked, her voice betraying her frustration. “And if nobody shows up, then what? We die?”

  “If we challenge the Inquisitors without help, we’re dead anyway,” Vaaler reminded her.

  “But at least we’ll go out fighting! At least we’re not giving up!”

  As usual, it was Norr’s calm, deep voice that made her see past the red veil of anger that so often blinded her.

  “We’re not giving up, Scythe,” he promised her. “We’re holding on for our one chance to get out of this alive.”

  Scythe chewed her lip, trying to find a hole in his logic to rip apart his argument. But in the end she had to admit he was right—they were better off waiting.

  She dropped to the ground beside Keegan, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms tight around them.

  “You better be right about this,” she warned him. Of course, he made no reply.

  The storm hit them an hour after dusk. The thick clouds completely blotted out the moon, but the near-absolute darkness didn’t bother Jerrod as he peered out into the distance with his second sight, desperately searching for some sign of their prophesied rescue.

  He stood apart from the others, away from the meager shelter of the stone circle. Hailstones struck him with enough force to leave welts and bruises on his exposed skin, but he ig
nored the pain.

  If Keegan is wrong—if no one is coming—then we are all doomed.

  Jerrod knew all too well that prophets could be wrong. He had once been a Seer of the Order; he understood that his visions were only glimpses of possible futures. What he foresaw was never inevitable. Sometimes his dreams were warnings, showing him what would happen if he didn’t take action to prevent it. Other times he dreamed of things that could only come to pass if he worked to make them real. Usually, though, his dreams were open to interpretation: symbols and portents with numerous meanings.

  It was the same for the other Seers. A prophet’s dreams were spawned by Chaos; by their very nature they lacked clarity. It was easy to misinterpret or be misled by a vision; it was possible to walk down the wrong path for the right reasons.

  But with Keegan it was different. He was one of the Children of Fire. He wasn’t just touched by the flames of Chaos; the divine spark of the Old Gods burned inside him. Or so Jerrod believed.

  But what if I’m wrong? What if Keegan isn’t special? What if he isn’t the savior? Or worse, what if he is and I’ve led him down the wrong path?

  “See anything yet?”

  Jerrod barely managed to conceal his startled reaction. He’d been so focused on scouring the surrounding plains that he hadn’t noticed Scythe’s approach.

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I know they’re coming.”

  “How long do you plan on waiting?” Scythe wanted to know. She stood with her shoulders hunched against the storm, her head down and her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

  “If they don’t come tonight, then what?” she pressed. “Do we wait another day? Two? Three? Or at some point do we finally decide to fight?”

  “Are you really so eager to meet your death?” Jerrod asked.