The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “Worse? You mean they’re already bad?”

  “The Ice Fangs didn’t exactly rescue us,” Vaaler confessed. “We’re not guests of the clan; we’re prisoners.”

  “What do they plan to do with us?” Keegan asked.

  “I think they’re planning to turn us over to another clan in exchange for supplies and weapons. Ransom us off, basically.

  They’ve sent envoys to the Rock Spirit clan. Or maybe Stone Heart is more accurate. Names are difficult to translate properly.”

  “Let’s go with Stone Spirit,” Keegan suggested.

  “Fair enough,” Vaaler conceded. “But whatever we call them, I think they’re Norr’s former people.”

  “I can understand why he wouldn’t want to tell us,” Keegan admitted. “Jerrod wouldn’t like the idea of our being prisoners.”

  “There’s more,” Vaaler said after a brief pause. “Most of the Eastern clans are nomadic. They don’t normally take prisoners—they just use up food and resources the clan has been storing up for the winter. If they don’t kill you in battle, they’ll usually just strip your weapons and supplies and set you off to fend for yourself.”

  “Sounds like a death sentence to me,” Keegan muttered.

  “Depends on the weather and how close the rest of your own clan is,” Vaaler countered with a shrug. “It’s just the way things are done out here. But if they capture someone special, they might make an exception.”

  “What do you mean by special?”

  “Somebody important. Somebody so valuable that another clan would be willing to pay a heavy ransom to get them back. Maybe a famous warrior or champion. Or, more likely, someone closely related to the clan leader’s family.”

  “You think Norr is some kind of barbarian royalty?”

  “The clans only take prisoners if the payoff is going to be worth the cost of keeping someone around until the exchange can be made,” Vaaler noted. “The Ice Fangs figured Norr was valuable enough to keep all five of us around.”

  “So this is a good thing,” Keegan said. “If Norr’s that important, then the Stone Spirits will make the exchange. Then he can get them to help us.”

  “Just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean your people want you back,” Vaaler cautioned bitterly. “We don’t know why Norr left in the first place. Maybe he was sent into exile. Maybe he fled because he lost some kind of power struggle.

  “The Stone Spirits might not want him back. If they refuse to pay the ransom, the best case is that we get set loose on the tundra with no food or weapons.”

  Keegan didn’t want to ask about the worst case. I bet the dogs are always hungry.

  “And even if they pay the ransom,” Vaaler continued, “it might be because Norr fled some kind of clan justice. They could want him back just to finish him off.”

  “No wonder Norr is upset,” Keegan muttered. “Any more good news?”

  Vaaler shook his head.

  “So what do you think we should do?”

  “We don’t have a lot of options. We can’t fight our way out of here, and if we try to run, the dogs will hunt us down.”

  “So we just sit and wait to find out if the Stone Spirits will pay the ransom?”

  “The Ice Fangs are expecting an answer in the next day or so,” Vaaler told him.

  Instead of replying, Keegan popped the last bit of jerky into his mouth, grimly chewing the leathery meat until he could force it down his throat.

  “I’m going to wander around the camp and see if I can learn anything else,” Vaaler said to break the silence.

  Keegan watched his friend go, his thoughts bleak. Once the Danaan was gone, he shoved his boots in the corner and crawled back under the hides. For some reason, he no longer felt up to leaving the tent.

  It actually took three more days for the Ice Fangs to get their reply. During that time, Vaaler could feel the bitter, hateful gazes from the Pack Masters and the other threescore members of the clan following him wherever he went.

  Outlander. Interloper. You eat our food and take the heat from our fires; you sleep in our tents, and you give us nothing in return. You have no place here, you do not belong.

  Vaaler shrugged their hatred off; he was used to being an outsider. But he knew their smoldering resentment would explode into violent anger if they didn’t get the answer they wanted from the Stone Spirits.

  Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. When the envoys finally returned they came bearing good news for the Ice Fang clan—their ransom terms had been met.

  Of course, that wasn’t how Norr explained it to the others.

  “The scouts have tracked down my people,” he told them in a brief gathering. “My family. My clan. The Pack Masters will escort us to them tomorrow morning.”

  The big man was clearly relieved as he delivered the news; obviously, he hadn’t been sure the Stone Spirits would want him back.

  But we still don’t know why they want you back, Vaaler thought. And it might not end well.

  Scythe reacted to the announcement with uncharacteristic reserve. She simply squeezed Norr’s hand, and in a subdued voice muttered, “I imagine it will be good to see them again.”

  Norr nodded and gave a noncommittal grunt.

  She knows he’s still keeping something from her, Vaaler recognized, but she can’t bring herself to ask him about it. Maybe she’s afraid of what he’ll tell her.

  Jerrod’s response was stoic silence, betraying no hint of his emotional state.

  He’s used to being in control. Taking charge. He doesn’t like being forced to sit around and rely on others.

  Keegan and Vaaler both played along with the ruse, smiling and congratulating Norr on the pending reunion. They gave no indication that they knew more than they were letting on save for a single, shared glance of concern.

  The next morning they set out on foot, leaving the Ice Fang camp behind. The weather had warmed slightly; the wind was light and the sun was shining. The Pack Masters led the way, accompanied by a half dozen other members of the clan.

  The dogs came with them, too, swarming around the humans with seemingly boundless energy. Some ran excitedly up ahead, others dropped behind to investigate something that caught their eye, only to quickly return to the rest of the pack. Their ears perked up and their tails wagged, and it was hard for Vaaler to see them as the same monsters that had torn apart the Inquisitors at the Gerscheld.

  The Pack Masters were unarmed, but the regular Ice Fang warriors carried heavy wooden spears, giant battle-axes or massive, crudely crafted swords. Vaaler couldn’t help but think the weapons were almost primitive in their quality. Combined with the motley assortment of ragtag, ill-fitting fur garments they wore, it was easy to understand where the stereotype of the Eastern savage originated.

  As they set out, the Ice Fangs had a casual, almost carefree air about them. It really did seem like they were being escorted by allies rather than marched off as prisoners to a ransom meeting.

  Is that because Norr asked them not to alarm us, or is it because they know they have nothing to fear from us?

  They set an easy pace, but Vaaler could tell that Keegan was laboring to keep up as he leaned on Rexol’s staff for support. Jerrod noticed it, too. Despite his worry of drawing unwanted attention, the monk had fallen into place only a few steps behind the young wizard.

  It’s strange they didn’t take the staff away from him, Vaaler thought, before remembering that magic was all but unheard of in the Frozen East. It was possible they thought it was some kind of exotic Southern weapon. They hadn’t bothered to take Vaaler’s rapier or Scythe’s razors away, either, so maybe it wasn’t that odd for them to let Keegan keep his staff.

  The barbarians clearly favored brute force over precision. With skill and proper training, a sharp, light blade could be devastating. But to someone unfamiliar with their usage, Scythe’s small knives and Vaaler’s thin rapier blade looked dainty and fragile.

  They don’t think our weapons are even worth
confiscating. Either that, or Norr somehow convinced them to let us keep them as part of the ransom negotiations.

  The Danaan let his eyes drift over to the big man, wondering just how high a price he’d promised the Stone Spirits would pay.

  Norr was walking with his head down, his limping gait uneven. The big man’s brow was tense and furrowed, his jaw clenched—possibly due to pain from his injuries, though Vaaler suspected he was more bothered by the coming reunion with his clan.

  Scythe walked beside him, her own features reflecting the anxious stress of her lover. In the short time Vaaler had known her, he had seen Scythe’s temper flare up several times. She wasn’t one to keep her feelings hidden. It was odd to see her now, struggling—and failing—to hide her growing frustration with Norr’s secretive behavior.

  They continued marching for several hours, none of them speaking. Vaaler was on the verge of telling them they needed to stop to let Keegan and Norr rest when one of the Pack Masters held up her hand, bringing the entire party to a halt.

  “We’re here,” Norr informed his friends.

  There weren’t any landmarks Vaaler could make out—they had stopped at a place on the flat, featureless tundra that looked like every other location to his eye.

  “Where’s your clan?” Scythe asked.

  “They will come soon,” Norr promised, gingerly lowering himself to the cold ground and settling in to wait.

  He put an end to further discussion by digging into the jerky rations they’d each been given at the start of the journey. Vaaler thought Scythe might push him for more information, but instead, she settled in beside him and they ate in silence.

  Vaaler and the others did the same. He noticed the Ice Fangs weren’t eating, however. They seemed more alert; more on edge than before. Keegan shot him a look that indicated he’d noticed it as well, but with Jerrod hovering close by, the two weren’t able to discuss what it might mean.

  They waited almost an hour before the Stone Spirit envoys arrived. There were fifteen of them, traveling on foot: twelve men and three women. They were all armed—like the regular warriors of the Ice Fangs, they favored spears, axes, and heavy swords. But the craftsmanship of the Stone Spirit weapons was clearly superior, even at a distance.

  The Ice Fangs aren’t a wealthy clan, Vaaler realized. They have to make do with whatever they can scrounge.

  As the new arrivals drew closer Vaaler could see that their clothes, though similar in style to the Ice Fang garb, were also better made. Instead of an ill-fitting assortment of crudely stitched animal skins draped haphazardly on the wearer, the Stone Spirits sported heavy fur vests that left their arms bare and short, hide-sewn skirts that reached almost down to their knee-high, cured-leather boots.

  Outnumbered and sporting inferior weaponry, the Ice Fangs would have to rely on their dogs to even the odds if things turned ugly. Seeing the hard expressions of the Stone Spirit warriors, Vaaler wasn’t sure that would be enough.

  Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.

  The Stone Spirit delegation stopped their approach about fifty yards from where the Ice Fangs had made their camp. Three of them—two men armed with swords and carrying large burlap sacks slung over their shoulders and a tall woman wielding a heavy spear—advanced alone.

  The Pack Masters went out as a trio to meet them halfway, ordering the dogs to stay in place with a series of short, sharp whistles.

  “These are the prisoners?” the tall woman asked to begin the parley. She was speaking Verlsung, her voice loud and clear enough that Vaaler could easily make out every word. She was addressing the Pack Masters, but she seemed to be looking past them directly at Norr.

  Even if she hadn’t been the one to speak, it wouldn’t have been hard to identify her as the leader of the group. She carried herself with the confident bearing of someone in charge, her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. She looked to be about Norr’s age—maybe ten years older than him, Keegan, and Scythe.

  There was something striking in her hard, pale features: a cold and dangerous beauty that reflected the land of her birth. Her auburn hair was twisted into a long, thick braid that hung down her back, the bangs held out of her ice-blue eyes by a simple silver circlet. Her shoulders were broad, her alabaster arms lean and muscular. Each forearm was covered with a metal bracer running from wrist to elbow, polished so that they glinted in the sun.

  Unlike the simple weapons of the Ice Fangs, the shaft of her spear was painted with symbols Vaaler couldn’t quite make out. A pair of feathers—one white, one black—and several small charms dangled from where the metal tip had been lashed on with thick sinew cords.

  “On behalf of the Stone Spirit clan,” the woman said, her voice taking on the tone of a formal, ritualized performance, “I ask what is to be the fate of these prisoners?”

  “The penalty for trespassing on our land is death,” one of the Pack Masters responded. “But out of respect for the mighty Stone Spirit clan, we will show mercy.”

  “And out of respect for the mighty Ice Fang clan, we will give you these gifts,” the woman responded.

  The Stone Spirit envoys stepped forward and dropped their sacks at the feet of the Pack Masters. The two Ice Fangs who hadn’t spoken quickly rummaged through, then nodded to the third.

  “We accept these gifts from the mighty Stone Spirit clan.”

  They turned to go, but stopped when the auburn-haired woman spoke again, this time in a less stiff, more normal tone.

  “Hadawas has called for a Conclave.”

  “The Ice Fangs do not pay tribute to the Chief of the Sun Blades,” the Pack Master answered.

  “Neither do the Stone Spirits,” the woman noted. “But many of us are gathering to hear his wisdom.”

  “We will not answer his summons,” the Pack Master insisted. “If Hadawas wants to share his wisdom with the Ice Fangs, let him come to us.”

  “I will give him your answer,” the woman replied, and Vaaler couldn’t quite tell if her words were meant to be a threat.

  With the conversation at an end, the Pack Masters were eager to return to the rest of their clan. A few quick commands and sharp whistles, and the entire troupe was up and moving off, headed back the way they’d come.

  As they retreated, the rest of the Stone Spirit delegation moved forward. Their weapons were still held at their sides, but they were tense and ready to spring into action.

  “Welcome back, Norr,” the woman said, still speaking in Verlsung. “I never thought to see the day you would return.”

  He didn’t say anything in reply.

  “Take their weapons,” the woman ordered her followers.

  Several of them stepped forward, only to stop abruptly when Norr held up his massive hand. Vaaler couldn’t help but notice the tall woman scowling at their reaction.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Norr said, speaking in the Southland tongue to his friends. “But we have to turn over our weapons.”

  “Why?” Scythe demanded, suddenly suspicious. “I thought these were your people. Your family.”

  “They will not harm us,” Norr reassured her. “Shalana is an honorable woman. We can trust her.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Scythe countered. “And I’m not giving up my blades until you do. What’s going on?”

  To Vaaler’s surprise, it was the tall woman who answered them in Allrish.

  “Give over your weapons,” she warned, her accent even thicker than Norr’s, “or we cut you down and leave you for the dogs to find.”

  “Don’t speak to her like that!” Norr snapped in his native tongue.

  In response to the big man’s anger, the Stone Spirit warriors all took an instinctive half step back. All except Shalana.

  “You want my weapons, come and take them!” Scythe snarled, dropping into a fighting crouch as her knives materialized in her hands.

  The Stone Spirit warriors had recovered their composure. Seeing Scythe’s knives, they raised their own weapons and
stepped forward. This time it was Shalana who stopped them with a gesture.

  “Keep your weapons for now,” she said told Scythe, her voice calm. “It’s foolish to kill prisoners we paid so much for.”

  “Prisoners?” Scythe exclaimed, her focus shifting from Shalana to Norr as she relaxed her posture and slipped her twin blades back out of sight. “Did you know about this?”

  The big man opened his mouth to explain, then closed it and hung his head in silent shame, unable to meet Scythe’s accusing gaze.

  “You must be dangerous,” Shalana noted while arching one eyebrow in Scythe’s direction. “Not many can scare my husband into silence.”

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS HARD for Cassandra to track the passage of time inside the Guardian’s cave. The fire always burned warm and bright inside, while outside there seemed to be an endless storm of icy wind and swirling snow that obscured the rising and setting of the sun behind dark clouds.

  But it was more than that. Time seemed to move differently in the cave, as if they were sheltered from the world outside. Warm. Safe. Yet Cassandra knew the safety was an illusion.

  I’m becoming too comfortable here.

  Nazir had often warned his students that the greatest threat to the Order was complacency; the subtle slide into comfort and contentment could be as deadly as any army. The longer she waited, the more powerful the forces gathering against her would become. She’d already seen proof of that in her dreams.

  The avian huntress who had stalked her during her initial flight from the Monastery was gone, slinking away in defeat rather than challenge the might of the Guardian. But a new threat had emerged to take her place. Cassandra had seen them in a recurring vision over the past three nights: two deformed, naked figures—one red, one blue, but otherwise identical—coming for her. Though humanoid, they scuttled across the icy tundra of the plains on all fours, their limbs long and spiderlike. They moved more slowly than the flying woman, keeping their snouts pressed close to the ground as they tracked her trail through the Southlands and into the Frozen East. She knew they wouldn’t be fooled by the false paths she’d conjured to confuse and mislead her previous pursuer. And they wouldn’t be afraid to challenge the Guardian.