“Sorry,” she whispered as she drew close. “Norr’s nervous about the duel. Took me a while to get him calmed down enough so he’d drift off to sleep.”
“Did you get what we need?” Keegan asked quickly, eager to keep his mind from imaging exactly what Scythe might have done to help her lover relax.
“Is this enough?” she said, holding up several strands of long hair.
“Perfect,” Vaaler answered.
“How did you get it?” Keegan asked. “Are you sure Shalana doesn’t suspect anything?”
“I may be out of practice, but I still remember a few tricks from my time on the streets,” was all she said.
Vaaler took the hair and placed it inside the circle he’d drawn on the ground.
“What about Jerrod?” Scythe asked. “I thought he’d be watching you like a hawk,” she said to Keegan.
The young man shook his head. “He’s been spending most of his time in his tent meditating. Maybe he thinks it will help him regain some of his … well, whatever it was he’s lost in this land.”
“There is Chaos here,” Vaaler said. “But it’s faint and hard to draw on. He’s not the only one affected by its absence, remember?” he added pointedly.
“I can do this,” Keegan assured him though he couldn’t help worrying about the effect of his missing hand.
“So you’ve said,” Vaaler replied, before making a final inspection of his work, though it was clear from his tone he still had his doubts.
“I think we’re ready. Scythe, let’s back up and give Keegan some room.”
The two stepped away, leaving the young mage standing by himself near the circle and runes Vaaler had inscribed on the ground. Keegan dropped to his knees, clutching Rexol’s staff in his hand while resting his stump across the wrist of his good arm. He took a few seconds to collect himself and focus his mind, then he began to chant in a soft whisper.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
The incantation itself held no power, but the words helped shape and form the patterns of his thoughts to maximize the potency of the spell. The repeated mantra was carefully constructed to help a mage unlock his own potential, to stimulate and awaken the subconscious mind in ways that could draw on and manipulate Chaos.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
It was easier with the witchroot. The drug helped free the mind from the chains of consciousness. It made it easier to let go of the physical world, while simultaneously heightening his awareness and perceptions. Without the witchroot running through his veins, it was a struggle to let go of the familiar, mundane patterns, and Keegan could sense his conscious and subconscious in conflict, battling each other for control.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
He focused on the words as they fell from his lips. There was a softness to them, a soothing sibilance, like a zephyr brushing against his skin, or a lover’s whisper in his ear.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
As he lost himself in the words, part of him seemed to break free and float away, hovering above him, watching. This was the essence of Chaos: to master it, one had to first surrender all conscious control. Allow it to wash over you like an ocean wave, then slowly try to contain it within the twisting, winding channel of the spell.
But as the Chaos began to gather, everything felt strange. Slow. Heavy. The power didn’t flow through or wash over him like the tide; it crawled along like a river choked with mud.
Jerrod believed Chaos was thin in the East, but Keegan realized the monk was wrong. Magic was strong here; but it was bound to the earth and stones. Like it was trapped in some kind of stasis. Frozen still by something more ancient and powerful than winter’s ice and snow.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
Slowly, drop by precious drop, Chaos was gathering. Directed by the repeated chant, his subconscious continued to call upon it, freeing his conscious mind to channel it through Rexol’s staff. The runes painted along the oaken shaft became illuminated, shimmering with red and blue light as the Chaos ran along its length. The gorgon’s skull suddenly came alive as an intense green light flared up in the empty eye sockets, pulsating with a steady rhythm that matched the cadence of Keegan’s voice.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
Echoed and amplified through Rexol’s staff, the trivial drops of Chaos Keegan had initially summoned were multiplied over and over, kindling a familiar heat in his veins. The heat intensified rapidly, and Keegan embraced the pain. It grew quickly then, a self-feeding circuit racing from wizard through the staff and back in an endless loop, a mounting pressure pushing him closer and closer to agony and ecstasy.
“Saarash hamsha eethiss. Essthich suurra shevvish.”
Keegan fought the urge to scream or cry out. The ritual was at a critical stage; it was vital to limit and contain the spell. Careful not to alter his chant in any way, Keegan slowly rose to his feet, raised the staff above his head with his good hand, then drove the butt end into the ground.
There was a crackling blue flash as he discharged the Chaos in a sudden, single burst, releasing it into the rune circle. The locks of Shalana’s hair were instantly vaporized, and the runes scrawled onto the earth vanished in a puff of turquoise smoke.
A hollow, empty darkness welled up inside Keegan, and he collapsed to the ground, silent and drained. The rush of gathering Chaos was equaled only by the crash when it was unleashed upon the mortal world. Normally the witchroot’s high would help offset the crushing, crippling sense of loss and despair, but without the drug Keegan felt the full impact.
For several seconds he sat motionless on the ground, not even bothering to respond when Vaaler rushed to his side, saying his name over and over while shaking him by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Scythe asked, her voice higher and sharper than usual. “What happened?”
Her words cut through the bleakness, piercing it and causing it to fall away. And Keegan realized how foolish and fleeting it really was.
“I’m okay,” Keegan said, trying—and mostly succeeding—to make his voice sound confident and strong. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” Vaaler asked, twisting him so he could look him directly in the eyes.
“Help me up,” Keegan said, holding out his hand to his friend.
As Vaaler took it, Scythe rushed in and seized his other arm. Despite her small stature, she was wiry and stronger than she looked, and between the two of them they lifted Keegan to a standing position.
On his feet he felt better. He was still tired, but the utter exhaustion that had caused him to collapse at the end of the spell was gone, just like the overwhelming sense of despair and emptiness. Instead, he felt a soft glow of satisfaction.
I did it! I may only have one hand, but I’m still a wizard! I can still control the power of Chaos!
“I can stand,” he assured them.
They each released their grip and stepped back cautiously, both ready to jump forward should he stagger. Bracing himself with Rexol’s staff, Keegan was able to stay up on his own, and after a few seconds they relaxed.
“Did it work?” Scythe asked once it became clear that Keegan was okay.
“It worked,” Keegan insisted. “I felt it.”
“I’m sure you felt something,” Vaaler conceded, “but there’s no way to know for sure.”
Turning to Scythe, he added, “This was far more difficult than you could possibly understand. Even if Keegan is right, the spell will be subtle. Don’t be shocked if Norr still loses.”
“So what now?” Scythe asked, ignoring Vaaler’s warning.
Still leaning on the staff for support, Keegan shrugged.
“We wait and see what happens tomorrow.”
The morning of the duel was cold and clear. Even to Jerrod’s mystical second sight, it was odd to see the sun shining so brightly
in a clear blue sky yet not feel any heat coming from it.
Shalana had scheduled the battle for shortly after first light, and despite the early hour virtually the entire clan had come out to watch. They crowded in a large circle around an open clearing in the center of the camp, thirty feet across. In the front ranks, closest to the action, Jerrod recognized many of the thanes from the meeting in the Long Hall. Behind them were mostly men and women in their twenties and thirties—fit and muscular specimens the monk assumed to be Stone Spirit warriors. The back rows were filled with the rest of the men, women, and even children who made up the clan’s civilian population. Many stood on tables they had dragged outside, while others simply pressed in close to those in front, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of the two combatants.
Jerrod and the rest of Norr’s companions had been allowed to stand among the thanes. He took that as a good sign; ever since Shalana had accepted the challenge they had been treated with nothing but respect by the clan. Hopefully that meant Shalana intended to honor her promise and give them sanctuary even if Norr lost.
It was hard for the monk actually to imagine the big man winning. His size and strength were incredible, and under normal circumstances he was much quicker and more agile than a man of his stature and bulk had any right to be. But Shalana knew all this; she had seen firsthand what kind of warrior Norr was—or rather, used to be—and she hadn’t hesitated to accept his challenge.
As big and strong as he is, Jerrod thought, she knows he’s no match for her on one leg.
She was probably right. Yet the monk had a suspicion the duel wouldn’t go as Shalana expected.
Without bothering to turn his head, he shifted his awareness. Instead of studying the barbarians in the crowd eagerly waiting for the primaries to arrive, he focused on Keegan, Scythe, and Vaaler.
They were nervous, but it didn’t seem to be the simple anxiety that would come from hoping Norr would win. They kept exchanging furtive glances, as if they knew something the others didn’t. They had a secret, something shared among the three of them.
Jerrod didn’t know what that secret was, but he knew they’d been plotting something recently. He’d heard Keegan sneaking out of his nearby tent the past two nights, no doubt scurrying off to meet with his coconspirators.
His initial impulse had been to go after the young wizard: it was his duty to watch over and protect the savior. However, he’d fought against his instincts and allowed Keegan and the others to meet without his interference.
It was difficult to explain why, exactly—even to himself. He couldn’t shake the sense that there was something more going on with the trio than he’d first realized; there was some kind of connection between them. Vaaler and Keegan had been friends for years, and Keegan clearly had a crush on Scythe. But it was more than that. Jerrod was beginning to suspect there was some kind of bond that went beyond their relationships as friends—even if they had been mortal enemies, they would all still have been linked in some way.
He didn’t understand it yet, not fully. All he knew for sure was that he no longer believed random chance had thrown them all together. Fate and destiny were at work, and Jerrod was wise enough to step aside and let it unfold, at least for now.
A roar from the assemblage snapped his attention back to the crowd. Those in the back were parting, stepping aside to form a path for the combatants to enter. Both were wearing the clan’s typical garments: fur vest, knee-length leather kilt, and heavy boots. Shalana’s hair was tied in a long braid hanging down her back, but she had abandoned the silver circlet on her head and the silver bracers on her forearms. Despite the cold, both chose to leave their arms and shoulders exposed.
To Jerrod’s surprise, they made their way through the crowd together. For some reason, he’d expected them to come from opposite sides, or at least for them to arrive at different times, one after the other.
They’re trying to downplay the adversarial aspects of the duel, Jerrod realized. This isn’t war; they’re both supposed to represent the same clan. Win or lose, they’re both supposed to be on the same side afterward.
Their weapons further reinforced the point that the duel was meant to be a challenge and not a battle to the death. Both were armed with thick, five-foot-long staves, though in Norr’s gigantic hands his weapon looked like a child’s toy.
Jerrod had assumed they’d be using swords, spears, or axes—the most common weapons he’d noticed around the Stone Spirit camp. But given the nature of the duel, the less deadly staves were a logical choice. Anyone who challenged for the title of chief would be a popular and skilled warrior. A fight to the death would remove a valued member of the clan.
And blood calls for blood, Jerrod thought. The clans recognize this; they’re smart enough not to tear themselves apart.
Watching a friend or kin die—no matter the circumstances—could inspire an unquenchable desire for vengeance. A public defeat in a ritualistic duel could be humiliating, but it wasn’t likely to spark a lethal feud between rival factions that would fracture the unity of the clan.
Although the heavy staves weren’t designed to be lethal, there was still an inherent element of danger. In contrast to the thin, lightweight weapons favored by the Inquisitors, these were not designed for speed and maneuverability. They were heavy, almost cumbersome implements intended to bludgeon and beat an opponent into submission through brute force.
The quickest way to victory would be a blow to the head that knocked an opponent unconscious; even if the intention wasn’t to kill, trauma to the brain was always risky. The chance of broken bones was also high; fracture an arm or leg and the opponent would almost certainly yield.
Even without a knockout or broken bone, Jerrod realized, an overmatched opponent might yield to a superior foe before any serious harm was done after taking a few hard, painful strikes. But more evenly matched foes—or those too stubborn or desperate to admit defeat—would continue to pummel each other until one was simply too injured and exhausted to continue.
This won’t end with a quick cut or stab. It’s going to be a war of attrition. Brutal and barbaric.
The cold, determined expression on each combatant’s face made it clear they both understood the risks. Neither displayed any hint of the savage excitement that rippled through the crowd. The supporters might be eager for this contest, but the principals entered under the burden of grim inevitability.
Jerrod was expecting some type of speech or presentation before the battle began. In the Southlands, this kind of deeply ingrained cultural tradition would be awash in ritual and ceremony. To his surprise, though, once both combatants were inside the clearing the action began immediately.
As he’d expected, Shalana was the aggressor. She rushed forward, jabbing the butt end of her staff in quick thrusts at Norr’s face. The big man took a clumsy step in retreat, but managed to deflect her assault to the side. Before he could counter with a return attack, Shalana stepped back and out of range, moving with a speed and grace that even Jerrod found impressive.
The crowd reacted with a roar, shouting and cheering to encourage their respective champions.
Shalana crouched low, jaw set and muscles in her bare arms flexing powerfully as she began to circle counterclockwise around her opponent. Jerrod appreciated the strategy: to keep facing her, Norr was forced to continually pivot around his bad leg.
The big man’s face grimaced with pain as he turned awkwardly, taking small little hop steps to take pressure off the knee. But the steps kept him off balance, making it impossible for him to launch a sudden lunge or surprise attack against his foe.
The cries of the crowd slowly dwindled as the action slowed, the spectators saving themselves until they had something to cheer about again.
Shalana was patient, staying out of range and biding her time as she feinted and prodded, doing just enough to keep Norr on the defensive.
Norr can’t win like this, Jerrod realized. She’s just wearing him down.
A
s if in response to Jerrod’s silent analysis, Norr let loose a mighty roar and rushed forward, grabbing the staff by one end with both hands like a club and swinging it in wide, waist-high arcs. Because of his leg, his charge didn’t have the explosive fury to catch Shalana off guard, and she was easily able to backpedal out of reach.
She darted to the side and jabbed at Norr’s flank as he staggered forward. He tried to turn to meet her attack, but couldn’t stop his momentum with only one leg. His parry was an offbalance, ill-directed effort, and Shalana managed to ram the butt end of her staff hard into his unprotected ribs.
The force of the blow caused him to grunt and sent him stumbling sideways. Shalana leapt forward, seizing the advantage to put a quick end to the duel with a single, well-aimed stroke to the back of Norr’s exposed skull.
At least, that’s what should have happened. Jerrod’s training allowed him to anticipate the moves of an enemy in combat an instant before they happened; he foresaw the inevitable outcome of the chain of events as they were unfolding in the ring. Except Shalana slipped.
Just as she prepared to deal the telling blow, her back foot landed squarely on a small patch of ice on the frozen earth. With no traction beneath her she wasn’t able to lunge forward and finish Norr off; instead her foot shot out straight behind her, throwing her off balance so that her swipe went wildly askew and she fell hard to the ground.
The crowd reacted first with a roar of anticipation, followed by a gasp of surprise as they watched Shalana’s victory snatched away by a bizarre stroke of ill fortune.
She sprang to her feet almost instantly, but her recovery gave Norr enough time to gather himself and turn to face her again. Shalana began to circle the big man once more, her icy gaze fixed on her opponent as she waited for another opening. She was angry at missing her chance, but she knew Norr’s luck had only prolonged the inevitable.
Was it luck? Jerrod wondered, turning his attention momentarily to Keegan, Jerrod, and Scythe. Like the rest of the crowd, they were focused intently on the action in the duel ring, for all intents and purposes relegated to the roles of cheering spectators.
The Scorched Earth Page 17