The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  Even if the mortal uses the Ring to obliterate the entire Danaan force, the ogre will simply walk up and rip his arm off, then deliver the Talisman to my waiting hand.

  Assuming, of course, the ritual went as planned.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  The voices of the Danaan mages rose up in a steady, rhythmic chant, reciting the mantra Orath had taught them. Andar joined in, a reluctant participant in the Minion’s ritual. But while the words fell from his lips, his mind wandered.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  It had taken several hours before Orath had been satisfied with the preparations for the ritual, examining and reexamining the runes to ensure they were without flaw. By the time the ritual began, night had fallen. The full moon shining down gave enough illumination to see even though the dark waters of the lake reflected none of its light.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  The words were strange and unfamiliar. Andar didn’t know their meaning, but he knew their purpose. This was magic in the style of the humans to the south; many of the specifics were foreign to him, but the Danaan High Sorcerer still understood the underlying theory.

  The symbols and words helped to call upon the power of Chaos, drawing it out from the ancient trees of the forest, concentrating and focusing it. Yet even though the Danaan mages were an essential element of the ritual, Andar had no illusions about who was in control of the spell.

  The chant was too short and too simple to have any significant effect on the shaping of the Chaos. It was only to unite the will of the Danaan in a common purpose—Orath’s purpose. They were conduits: Whatever power they gathered would be bent and shaped by the leader of the Minions.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  Andar could sense the strength of the spell building. The still air became hot and heavy until sweat was running down his brow. In his ears he felt a growing pressure, causing them to pop again and again. A tingling in the back of his skull ran through his jaw and into his teeth, uncomfortable and unnerving.

  A fierce wind sprang up out of nowhere, swirling around them, tearing at Andar’s hair and clothes. The Black Lake began to bubble, like a simmering pot. The wind intensified, knocking several of the Danaan mages off balance. But even as their bodies stumbled, their words did not, and the chant continued unabated.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  There was a deep, heavy crash, like a clap of thunder from far beneath the earth. Andar didn’t hear it so much as feel it in his feet. A second later, a geyser erupted from the center of the lake, spewing fetid water fifty feet into the air.

  Something roared, an inhuman sound of anger and pain so loud it caused Andar to reflexively cover his ears. More geysers shot up from the lake, showering the Danaan with the foul liquid and releasing the sickening odor of noxious gases trapped for centuries beneath the surface.

  Struggling against his rising gorge as the stench rolled over them, Andar continued the chant. The geysers suddenly stopped and the wind fell still. The air around them grew instantly cold, causing Andar to shiver uncontrollably. And then the ogre breached the surface of the lake and crawled out onto the shore.

  The creature was massive: a squat, powerful mound of muscle. Even though it was hunched forward—the knuckles of its enormous three-fingered hands braced on the ground to help its thick, stubby legs support its girth—it dwarfed the Danaan.

  The beast was naked, its bloated, graying flesh covered with sores and slime dredged up from the bottom of the lake. It had four oversized teeth protruding from its lips like tusks, two on top and two beneath. Long, uneven strands of filthy black hair hung from its disproportionately large head, which tilted side to side at unnatural angles to fix its tiny yellow eyes on the circle of chanting wizards.

  “Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko. Lei. Sharl. Terress. Ko.”

  Its gaze settled on Orath and the other Minions standing off to one side, and the ogre reared up to its full fifteen-foot height. Thrusting its heavy fists high into the air, it slammed them onto the earth and bellowed its defiance.

  Orath nearly gasped aloud when the ogre first appeared, awed by its magnificence. A physical monstrosity, it was both repulsive and compelling. It radiated power—the raw, untamed power of Old Magic not seen in the mortal realms since the Cataclysm.

  Drawing on the strength of the Danaan wizards, Orath reached out with an invisible hand and touched the ogre’s mind. It was bestial, primal—driven by simple instinct and base emotion: hunger and hate.

  Sensing the intrusion, the ogre turned to face him, its massive, tooth-filled maw unleashing a deafening roar.

  Steeling himself, Orath began a chant of his own. Not the simple, rhythmic mantra of the Danaan but the intricate words of power that would dominate and bind the Chaos Spawn to him, enslaving it to Orath’s will.

  The ogre staggered back as if physically struck, its grotesque features twisting into a mask of horror and fear. It tried to turn, to flee back into the depths of the Black Lake, but Orath refused to let it go.

  Speaking so quickly his words were an indecipherable buzz, the Minion raised his left hand, palm up and his long, thin fingers spread wide. Slowly, he clenched it into a fist.

  Thrashing and wailing, the ogre realized escape was impossible. In an instant, it switched from flight to fight. Beneath its bloated flesh muscles rippled and tensed as it prepared to charge its enemy.

  Orath brought up his right hand, arm extended and palm out, to keep the beast at bay. The ogre hesitated, its momentum temporarily halted. Orath held it there, frozen in its tracks, as his words shifted to a deeper pitch. Once again, he reached out to the ogre’s mind, seeking to bind it to his own.

  It snarled in response and hunched low to the ground, using its hands to gain leverage in the soil. Slowly, it began to crawl toward Orath.

  Realizing the ogre’s will was stronger than he’d anticipated, the Minion switched his chant. The words took on a higher, keening pitch as he reached out to the circle of Danaan wizards. Instead of just uniting their latent power, he began to siphon it off, rapidly and violently draining every last drop of Chaos from their blood in a desperate attempt to bring the ogre to heel.

  Andar sensed the change in the spell immediately; he had a deep and instinctive connection with Chaos. But it took him a few moments to recognize what was happening. By the time he realized that Orath wasn’t just calling on the Danaans’ power, but their very life essence, several of the weaker mages had already collapsed into unconsciousness.

  The High Sorcerer tried to pull away, but he was caught up in the power of Orath’s spell. Unbidden, his lips continued the rhythmic chanting, unable to break free. Inside, he felt as if he was being ripped apart: bits and pieces torn off to feed the Minion’s hunger as he battled the Chaos Spawn. He was being drained; sucked dry—soon all that remained would be a withered, lifeless husk.

  But it wasn’t just his own death he felt. United by their chant, Andar felt the suffering of all the Danaan—just as they felt his. A shared torment; an unbearable torture multiplied dozens of times over.

  That’s it. That’s the key.

  Alone, he wasn’t strong enough to break free from Orath’s spell. But he wasn’t alone. He and the other Danaan mages were as one, their minds and their power united through the ceaseless chant. Together, they might be able to resist the Minion.

  But should we?

  Breaking free would end the ritual prematurely, leaving the ogre unfettered. Without the constraints of Orath’s spell, the Chaos Spawn would wreak further destruction on the Danaan kingdom. And without the ogre, the Queen would never be able to reclaim the Ring.

  He—like all the other Danaan—had sworn an oath of allegiance to his monarch. They’d all vowed to give their lives in the service of their liege. To end the spell now would be treason.

  No! To abandon Rianna n
ow, when she is weak and vulnerable, is the real treason! We cannot leave her under the influence and control of Orath! We must fight for our kingdom and our Queen!

  There wasn’t time to reach out to the others and explain his plan; by then Orath would have already taken too much. His only hope was to try to call upon the will of his fellow Danaan and hope they followed him, immediately and without question. If they hesitated out of confusion, fear, or misguided loyalty to the Queen, or if they were too overwhelmed by their own suffering and agony to join him, then all was lost.

  There’s no other choice. We have to do this now.

  As the ogre continued its slow but inevitable advance, Orath continued to feed on the Danaan wizards, drinking deep of the Chaos in their blood. The Queen might be angered over their deaths, but Orath was confident he could explain it away as an unforeseeable accident. And without Andar to oppose him, it would be even easier to manipulate and control her.

  The power flowing into him had gone from a steady stream to a raging river. Orath continued to take it in, gathering it for a final burst that would break the ogre’s will once and for all. And then suddenly it was gone.

  Entirely focused on the ogre, he didn’t sense the gathering will of his victims until it was too late. Somehow, they found the strength to wrench themselves free of the spell at the last possible second; the chanting circle fell instantly silent as all the Danaan simultaneously collapsed, exhausted but alive.

  The ogre sensed it, too. The power holding him back dissolved away, and the beast reacted by springing forward in a mad charge.

  Fortunately, Gort and Draco were there, stepping forward to take the place of the Danaan once they saw them fall. Unable to form the words of the ritualistic chant with their malformed mouths, they gave support to Orath by opening themselves up fully to their leader so he could draw upon their power to tame the beast.

  They don’t understand what really happened, Orath realized. They just think the Danaan faltered because they were weak.

  The power of the other Minions washed over Orath in a massive wave, and he swallowed it all in a single gulp. In an instant the ogre’s rush was halted, the beast frozen in place. But the creature’s will still refused to yield.

  As he had done with the Danaan, Orath began to draw on the Chaos trapped deep within the other Minions, sucking it from their blood and the marrow of their bones. Like the mortals, Gort and Draco recognized what he was doing and tried to pull away. But the Danaan had caught Orath off guard. This time he was prepared, and he would not allow the ritual to end prematurely.

  Gort howled and barked, Draco hissed and screamed as Orath bled them dry. His companions were strong, but Orath was stronger. It was over in seconds, their bodies transformed into desiccated, mummified husks that fell lifeless to the earth.

  The sudden influx of power allowed Orath to lash out with one last, desperate attempt to crush the ogre’s will. The beast roared and thrashed its head from side to side, then collapsed onto the ground. Whimpering, it curled up into a ball and lay still.

  Orath tried to approach, but his body was completely spent from the ritual. Staggering in the soft earth, he fell face forward where he lay motionless and only semiconscious.

  When he heard the ogre begin to move once more he struggled to rise but could only manage to roll over onto his back. He saw the beast was crawling toward him again, and this time Orath was powerless to stop it.

  The creature slowly rose to its feet as it reached his side, a foul-smelling mountain of swollen gray flesh looming above him. Orath braced for the killing blow, knowing a single swing of one massive fist could pulverize him into nothing. Instead, the ogre dropped to one knee and bowed its head.

  “Master,” it croaked out in a thick, wet voice.

  Chapter 9

  KEEGAN COULDN’T REMEMBER much about the journey to the barbarian camp. He vaguely remembered the arrival of the Pack Masters, and he could recall Norr carrying him as they trudged through the wind and rain. Everything else was a hazy blur of fever dreams and hallucinations.

  At one point he’d imagined Norr as some kind of monster—an ogre that had crawled up from the bottom of a dark and sinister lake, coming to kill him. Another time, he imagined himself to be an elk, racing across the tundra with an army of barking, slavering dogs in pursuit. Most of the time, however, he’d just slept.

  But he was feeling better now. Two days had passed, or maybe three. It was hard to track the passage of time inside the small deerskin tent. Apart from Vaaler’s checking up on him numerous times, he’d had no contact whatsoever with the outside world.

  Keegan welcomed the visits from his friend, though he was disappointed none of the others had come to see him. Especially Scythe. At first, he’d been too weak to wonder about their absence; just staying awake and eating the warm soup Vaaler fed him was all the effort he could manage. This morning, however, he had woken up feeling refreshed and strong. And he couldn’t help but think something strange was going on.

  Maybe she’s avoiding you because you made a fool of yourself last time you talked to her.

  Even if that were true, what about Jerrod and Norr? He couldn’t think of any good reason why they wouldn’t have at least come to check on him.

  Knowing he wouldn’t find any answers trapped inside the tent, he kicked away the heavy hides he’d been sleeping under. Someone had removed his boots; in the darkness of the tent he fumbled around until he found them tucked away in the corner.

  Before he could pull them on, a stream of light poured in, followed by a cold blast of air as Vaaler squeezed through the tent’s small slit of an entrance.

  “You’re awake,” the Danaan noted with surprise.

  The tent was too small to stand up in, so Vaaler had to crawl forward on his hands and knees. Once fully inside, he turned and closed the entrance behind him, quickly lashing the thin sinew strips dangling from the hide-flap door to the tent’s bone frame.

  “Are you hungry?”

  With the flap closed it was once again dark inside, turning both men into dim silhouettes. But Keegan was able to see that his friend was holding something out toward him.

  “Jerky. Figured you’d be sick of soup by now.”

  Keegan took the strip of dried meat and tore into it, his stomach rumbling. It was so tough to chew, it made his jaw ache, and so salty, it made him wince. But Vaaler was right—he’d had his fill of soup.

  “How come you’re the only one who’s come by to see me?” Keegan asked between bites.

  “Sorry if I’m boring you,” Vaaler said, taking mock offense.

  “I’m serious,” Keegan pressed. “Jerrod and the others—are they okay?”

  “We’re all alive and well,” Vaaler assured him. “But everyone’s been acting a little strange since we got here.”

  “How so?”

  “Jerrod told me he doesn’t want to put you in danger. The Pack Masters don’t trust him; they’re watching him pretty close. He probably figures it’s best to keep his distance. Avoid drawing any extra attention your way.”

  “Normally he won’t let me out of his sight,” Keegan muttered. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “I think seeing the pack take down the Inquisitors rattled him,” Vaaler explained. “He’s afraid the Ice Fangs will set their dogs on him if he so much as breathes funny.”

  “Ice Fangs?”

  “That’s the name of this clan. I think the literal translation is actually “snow tooth,” but Ice Fang sounds more impressive.”

  “Did Norr tell you that?”

  “No. I’ve studied Verlsung enough to pick up a few phrases here and there.”

  Keegan recognized the formal name of the Eastern language from his studies under Rexol, though most people in the Southlands simply called it Clan-speak.

  Keegan wasn’t surprised by the admission, and he suspected Vaaler’s command of the foreign tongue was far greater than he made it seem. He spoke Allrish, the language of the Southlands,
without any accent whatsoever—it was almost easy to forget that Danaan was his native tongue.

  He’s probably just as proficient in Clan-speak.

  Vaaler had expected to rule the Danaan kingdom one day; it only made sense for him to try to learn the culture, customs, and tongues of neighboring peoples. And during their time together under Rexol, Vaaler had shown a fluent mastery over the strange words and arcane chants they’d had to memorize for their spells.

  He always learned stuff quicker than I did. Probably still remembers every word of it, too. He would have been the perfect apprentice—or the perfect King—if Chaos hadn’t played such a cruel trick and left him blind to the Gift and the Sight.

  “Norr hasn’t been talking to anyone lately,” Vaaler continued, oblivious to Keegan’s train of thought. “It’s like he’s gone into some kind of deep depression. Even Scythe can’t snap him out of it.”

  “That’s why she hasn’t come to see me,” Keegan realized. “She’s worried about Norr.”

  “He’s keeping secrets,” Vaaler added. “Big ones. There’s more to his past than he lets on.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The Ice Fangs don’t know I can understand them. I’ve heard some things.”

  Keegan understood his friend’s hesitation. Norr had kept his secrets from the group for a reason; exposing them might seem like a type of betrayal in the loyal Danaan’s eyes. But keeping the truth hidden could put all of them at risk.

  “If you know something important, you can’t keep it to yourself,” Keegan told him.

  “Okay,” Vaaler relented, clearly relieved to finally be able to share his news with someone else. “But you can’t tell Jerrod or Scythe. They tend to overreact. That could make things worse.”