The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  It seemed only a minute later that Jerrod was shaking him back to consciousness. The peat had burned itself out in the night, but the cave was still warm enough that Keegan was glad he’d stripped off most of the layers of clothing before he fell asleep.

  “It’s time to go,” the monk told him.

  Once he, Jerrod, Scythe, and Norr were ready and about to leave, Hadawas said, “Remember—I will be waiting here for you to return. You made a promise, Norr. Do not betray your people.”

  The big man nodded and the four of them set out, climbing up the steep tunnel and back out onto the plateau above. Keegan’s body still ached from yesterday, but they kept an easy pace and slowly his limbs and muscles began to loosen up. It helped that the weather was milder than before, and they had no trouble finding the path Hadawas had told them to look for.

  The descent into the valley was steep, but compared to what they had already faced it almost seemed pleasant. A second mountain range rose up on the other side of the valley, and it was immediately obvious which peak Hadawas had referred to. Though the top was hidden high up in the clouds above, the base was three times around as any of the others.

  “We better find that path Hadawas mentioned,” Scythe noted, “or it’s going to take us a month to climb that monster.”

  The temperature slowly warmed as they continued to descend, until Keegan was sweating beneath all his layers.

  You’ll need them soon enough when we start going up that mountain.

  “The yeti are gone,” Scythe noted.

  “They stopped following us as soon as we began our descent into the valley,” Jerrod noted.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Norr said. “Not if they really are descended from ancestors who were seeking the Sword.”

  “Maybe in their madness they’ve forgotten what they once looked for,” Jerrod hypothesized.

  “Or maybe they’re afraid of the Guardian,” Scythe chimed in.

  “Whatever we are about to face,” Jerrod assured them, “we will prevail. We have the Ring, and this is Keegan’s destiny.”

  Even if you’re right, Keegan thought, there’s nothing in your prophecy that says all of you will survive.

  “I’m only going to use the Ring as a last resort,” Keegan vowed.

  “If we go in expecting the Guardian to oppose us with violence,” Norr warned them, “then that is what we will find.”

  The conversation came to an end as they reached the valley’s floor. It was still cold enough for snow to cover the ground, but it was a pleasant relief from the bone-numbing chill atop the peaks, and Keegan savored their walk across it.

  They found the trail without much trouble but decided to make camp in the valley that night rather than tackle the great peak with darkness coming. For the second night in a row, Keegan dreamed of him and Cassandra on the beach, but this time she was standing beside him … though it had the same violent end. This time when he woke from his nightmare, he wasn’t able to fall back to sleep for a long, long time.

  The morning brought the threat of another storm, but Norr insisted they had to risk the ascent anyway.

  “Every day we wait the Danaan army carves deeper into clan territory. Every day more people die. If we cannot stop them, they will eventually march upon the refugees hiding in the Giant’s Maw and slaughter my people to extinction.”

  “Norr’s right,” Jerrod said, much to Keegan’s surprise. “There is no point in waiting.”

  He’s actually eager for this, Keegan realized. He’s excited about claiming the Sword.

  As they began to climb the long, winding trail Keegan couldn’t share Jerrod’s enthusiasm. Instead, he felt an ominous foreboding that grew steadily worse as they made the long ascent.

  The first part of the climb was simple, but as the path rounded the mountain’s face they were hit with the full force of the wind howling on the other side. The mountain was so large its shadow blocked out the sun, and the path was covered in ice and snow. The higher they went, the colder it became. The once-wide path narrowed sharply until they were again creeping cautiously along. But high above them they saw a faint flickering glow that seemed to emanate from the mountain itself.

  Like a fire tucked away inside a cave, Keegan thought, and he knew without any doubt that the Guardian—and the Sword—waited within.

  The others had also noticed the glow, and they redoubled their efforts, drawn to its promises of warmth and shelter. When they finally reached it, after several hours of inching their way closer and closer, Jerrod suddenly stopped them with a raised hand, wary of what they might encounter.

  From inside the cave a deep voice intoned, “You have come this far already. What is a few more steps?”

  The words rang clearly in Keegan’s ears despite the wind, but it was hard to gauge the emotion of the speaker.

  Angry? Sad? Resigned?

  The four of them entered the cave in quick succession, just far enough to escape the elements outside. Inside, the Guardian was waiting for them.

  Twice as tall as Norr, he looked like a sculpture of the perfect human form chiseled from some remarkable blue stone. He was naked save for a loincloth and boots, and he held a massive spear at his side—not raised for battle, but poised and ready. His face seemed almost ageless, though Keegan noticed a few wisps of gray in the pitch-black hair of his beard.

  The second thing Keegan noticed was that it was warm in the cave; far warmer than the small fire burning at the back could explain. And then, finally, he saw the Sword, the silver blade embedded in a thick stone pedestal and the magnificent black handle pointing toward the ceiling.

  “I know why you are here,” the Guardian told them. “But I cannot give you what you seek.”

  There wasn’t anything overtly threatening about what he said or how he said it. Rather, he seemed implacable, immovable as the mountain in which he had built his home.

  “An army is marching across the East,” Norr pleaded, “driving my people before it. The Sword could save them.”

  “It could,” the Guardian conceded. “But you may not have it.”

  “You are a servant of the True Gods,” Jerrod told him. “As am I. Now the Legacy is crumbling and the Slayer seeks to return. We need the Sword to stop him.”

  It seemed as though his words gave the Guardian pause, but when he replied his refusal was as steadfast as ever.

  “Even Immortals can die. The Old Gods have faded from existence, and Daemron can sense his own end is near. The Legacy can be preserved until he is gone.”

  “No,” Jerrod told him. “It can’t. I’ve seen the visions of his Chaos Spawn armies pouring through the Legacy’s breach. Without Daemron’s Sword, we cannot hold them back.”

  “If the Legacy falls,” the Guardian replied, “the Sword alone will not be enough to defeat the Slayer.”

  “I have the Ring, too,” Keegan said. “And soon we will get the Crown.”

  “The Crown is not meant for you,” the Guardian growled, showing anger for the first time. “It belongs to another.”

  “Cassandra,” Keegan gasped, remembering his dream and putting the pieces together. “She was here, wasn’t she? She has the Crown!”

  “I offered her the Sword,” the Guardian admitted. “But she refused. She did not believe any one mortal should possess all the Talismans. Their power is what drove Daemron to turn against the Gods.”

  “We will not leave without the Sword,” Jerrod said, his voice hard.

  “Then you will not leave at all,” the Guardian said, raising his spear.

  And then suddenly Scythe was lunging at him, her supply pack slipping from her shoulders to fall on the floor. She came in low to the ground, her blades flickering in the light of the fire. The Guardian seemed momentarily caught off guard by her attack, but at the last second he managed to pivot to the side as Scythe went hurtling past him.

  She barely came up to his thigh, but she lashed out as he turned away and sliced one of her knives along his expo
sed skin just above the knee. For any normal man the wound would have opened up the femoral artery, causing him to bleed out in seconds. But her weapon barely left a scratch on the blue flesh.

  Norr and Jerrod were already joining the fray, springing into action a split second after Scythe, their own packs hastily cast aside. The monk threw himself into the Guardian’s leg, trying to knock the giant off balance, only to bounce off without even moving him. Norr grabbed hold of the massive spear with both hands, trying to wrench it out of his enemy’s fist to no avail. With his free hand the Guardian picked the big man up and hurled him through the air so that he slammed hard against the wall on the other side of the cave.

  Knowing they were completely overmatched, Keegan grabbed for the Ring around his neck, fumbling to get it off the chain and slip it over his finger with only one hand.

  As he struggled, Scythe was literally crawling up the Guardian’s back. With a bloodthirsty scream, she drove both her knives at the same time into the grooves on either side of his neck, just inside the collarbone. But instead of plunging in, the blades ricocheted off the muscle and sinew, twisting out of Scythe’s grip and clattering to the floor. She stared at her suddenly empty hands in stunned surprise, but recovered in time to spring clear as the Guardian threw himself backward against the nearest wall, narrowly avoiding being crushed.

  Jerrod was coming at the Guardian again, unleashing a series of spinning roundhouse kicks in rapid succession. The Guardian simply blocked them with the shaft of his spear, then sent Jerrod flying with a backhand slap. He landed beside Norr, who was still down. But unlike the barbarian, the monk rolled with the impact and came to his feet unharmed.

  Keegan finally felt the Ring slide over his knuckle. He threw his head back and raised his fist high, opening himself up to the infinite power of the Sea of Chaos. But instead of an overwhelming wave of magical fire, he felt almost nothing.

  The Sword! he realized. It absorbs Chaos. Traps it. Keeps it frozen deep beneath the ice and stone.

  But though it was faint and hard to reach, he knew the power was still there. He’d summoned Chaos to unleash the curse on Shalana; he knew with the Ring he could summon enough magic to blast their enemy into ash.

  Jerrod was on his feet again and rushing toward the Guardian, only to have his attack repelled and be sent reeling once more. Scythe—unarmed, with her knives still lying on the ground—had turned her attention to Norr, who lay motionless in the corner.

  Focusing his mind, Keegan reached deep and found a hidden wellspring of Chaos. Steeling his will, he gathered it with the Ring, channeled it through Rexol’s staff, and unleashed it against the Guardian.

  A jet of blue flame shot from the empty eye sockets of the gorgon’s skull to completely envelope his fifteen-foot-tall form. The mighty titan screamed in pain and staggered back as Keegan poured everything he had—everything the Ring could give him—into the searing flames.

  The Guardian braced himself against the onslaught, ignoring the flames that covered his flesh. He cocked his arm back and hurled his spear. Keegan saw it coming but was powerless to stop it. And then suddenly Jerrod was there, leaping across the room with superhuman speed to knock Keegan aside. The spear passed through the air where he had been standing an instant before and buried itself deep in the rock wall.

  The impact destroyed Keegan’s concentration and ended his spell. The Guardian’s flesh was discolored and badly blistered, his hair had all burned away—but he was still standing. With three great strides he crossed the cave and yanked the enormous spear loose from the wall and turned on Keegan, who still lay on the floor.

  Jerrod threw himself between them, but the Guardian knocked the monk aside with a disdainful flick of the wrist as he raised his spear above his head. Keegan tried to call upon Chaos to save himself, but there was nothing left—the power of the Ring was spent; here in the cave where the Sword had lain for centuries it was no match for the other Talisman.

  The spear came down in a blur, but instead of pinning Keegan to the ground it was deflected aside at the last moment by Scythe, wielding Daemron’s sword.

  The Guardian turned his rage on the young woman who had dared to lay hands on the sacred blade. Moving so fast he seemed a blur, he wheeled and stabbed at her with the tip of his spear. But fast as he was, Scythe was even quicker. She stepped aside and brought the Sword around in a tight circle. It sliced clean through the heavy spear, severing the tip.

  Undeterred, the Guardian swung the shaft at her head like a club, the weapon moving so fast it carved a high-pitched whine through the air. Scythe calmly ducked under the blow and darted in, using the Sword to sever the tendon running down the back of his leg.

  The Guardian howled and fell to the ground, his cry so loud it brought down bits of debris from the cave’s roof. Before he could roll out of the way, Scythe plunged the blade deep into his stomach. She pulled it back as the Guardian’s eyes went wide with disbelief and she raised the blade high above her head to deal the killing blow. And then suddenly Norr was there, standing between them.

  “Don’t,” he said, holding up a hand as if the Talisman couldn’t slice cleanly through his entire body and into the helpless foe on the floor.

  He was on his feet, but he was hunched over and his other arm dangled uselessly at his side, the shoulder separated from his impact with the cave wall.

  Scythe stared at him with an unreasoning madness in her almond-shaped eyes. And then recognition suddenly washed over her features and she turned away, letting Daemron’s Sword fall to the ground as she walked away as if in a daze.

  With his good hand Norr bent over and picked it up off the cave’s floor, casting a single glance at the prone Guardian, who held one hand pressed tightly against the wound in his belly. Then the big man limped over to where Scythe was sitting huddled in the far corner of the cave, her eyes staring at something that seemed to be very far away. He lay the Sword down beside her, then sat down and wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  Keegan slowly rose to his feet and slipped the Ring off his finger with his teeth, then spit it into his palm and clutched it tightly. Jerrod slowly made his way over beside him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Keegan nodded.

  “Why did you spare me?” the Guardian called out across the cave, gasping slightly from the pain of his wound.

  His question seemed to snap Scythe out of her daze, and she looked over at him.

  “It wasn’t me,” she said, tilting her head in her lover’s direction. “It was him.”

  “How come Scythe wasn’t killed when she grabbed the Sword?” Keegan asked. “When Rexol used the Crown it devoured him. When I used the Ring in Ferlhame it almost destroyed me.”

  “The Sword must be different,” Jerrod surmised. “It keeps the Chaos trapped within the blade. Anyone can use it.” He turned his gaze to the Guardian, who still lay on the floor. “Is that right?”

  At first the titan simply glared at him. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

  “Our legends held that the Sword had the power to heal as well as harm,” Norr noted. “Is that true?”

  Again, the Guardian nodded.

  Norr picked up the Sword with his good hand, rose to his feet, and closed his eyes, concentrating. A faint silver nimbus surrounded him, and then suddenly his shoulder popped back into place and he stood up straight. He crossed the cave, no longer limping, and stood over the Guardian, then placed the flat of the blade gently against the titan’s shoulder.

  The silver glow was brighter this time, more intense. And then the Guardian took his hand away from his stomach. The flesh underneath was completely healed, pristine and perfect. He rose to his feet, his severed tendon healed as well, though the hair that had burned away did not return.

  “I see that I was wrong about you,” he said, though which one of them he was actually speaking to wasn’t clear. “You are a worthy champion to carry Daemron’s Sword. And I am not strong enough to st
op you anyway. The Talisman is yours.

  “But,” he added, “I must also ask you for a favor.”

  “What?” Jerrod said before anyone else could speak.

  “Cassandra. Go to her. She needs your help with her burden.”

  “She was also born under the Blood Moon,” Jerrod whispered reverently, as if he was suddenly coming to some great understanding. “She has been touched by Chaos.”

  “You said this Cassandra person has Daemron’s Crown,” Scythe reminded him. “Why does she need our help if she’s got one of the Talismans?”

  “She is hunted by Chaos Spawn that have entered the mortal world,” the Guardian said. “They seek the Crown for themselves, and she is reluctant to use its power … with good reason.”

  “The Slayer’s Minions,” Keegan said, remembering his vision of the Monastery in ruins.

  “They will kill her and take the Crown for their master,” the Guardian insisted. “Unless you can find her first. She is heading for Callastan.”

  “Callastan’s a big place,” Scythe pointed out.

  “If we get to the city, I’ll be able to find her,” Keegan said, remembering his dreams. They’ll lead me to the Crown. Just like they led me to the Ring and the Sword.

  “We can’t go to Callastan,” Norr declared. “Not yet, at least.”

  “This is meant to be,” Jerrod tried to reassure him. “This is the destiny the prophets of the Order saw though they didn’t understand it.

  “Everything is falling into place. Once we find Cassandra, we will have all three Talismans. With them Keegan will be able to drive back the Slayer’s armies and the world will be saved!”

  “What about my people?” Norr demanded. “The Danaan will slaughter them if we don’t bring back Daemron’s Sword!”

  “This is more important,” Jerrod insisted. “If the Slayer returns, no one will survive. Not the clans. Not the Danaan. Not the Southlands. No one!”

  “I made a vow,” Norr said, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest. “I will not break it.”