The Scorched Earth

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “The Serpent’s Tongue is just ahead,” Jerrod called out, hoping to inspire them to greater speed with a few words of encouragement. “If we get clear of the mountains, the yeti might not dare to follow us onto the plains.”

  Keegan didn’t necessarily believe that was true, but he didn’t object as they picked up the pace yet again, moving at almost a full run, their packs thumping against their backs.

  Heavy black clouds blotted out the sun and a thick, wet sleet began to fall. It turned the ground under their feet into a treacherous trail of ice and slick rock, impeding their efforts. The yeti grew steadily louder, and Keegan realized that even driven by fear and desperation, they weren’t going to make it.

  The sleet turned to snow as the temperature dropped. The wind gusted and swirled, whipping up snow and ice that stung their eyes. But it wasn’t strong enough to drown out the howls of their pursuers.

  “There!” Jerrod shouted, pointing up ahead. “The Serpent’s Tongue!”

  Ahead of them stood an enormous heap of rock, ice, and snow. It looked as if two great mountains had been smashed together, crumbling into a pile of debris hundreds of yards thick. It stretched for miles to the left and right, and upward as far as the eye could see.

  Maybe that’s what actually happened, Keegan thought. The Cataclysm reshaped the land.

  It would take days, if not weeks, to climb or go around the obstacle. But as they drew closer, Keegan saw a single hairline crack running through the center—a fissure in the rock that went all the way through to the other side. The Serpent’s Tongue.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Keegan realized the yeti were now close enough to actually see. They rolled down from the rocks and slopes behind them, a writhing, twisting, screaming mass of white fur, claws, and teeth.

  Calling on the final reserves of their strength, the four made a final sprint for the pass. When they reached the mouth of the pass, the yeti were only a few hundred yards behind and closing fast.

  The Serpent’s Tongue was only a few yards across, hemmed in on either side by walls of ice and snow too tall to see the top. It twisted and turned sharply, and the ground was littered with piles of ice and rock that had dislodged from the high walls and shattered on the ground below.

  It’s hopeless, Keegan saw. The yeti move faster than us over this terrain. They’ll climb along the walls and come at us from above. We’ll never make it.

  Instead of plunging into the winding pass, Keegan stopped at the entrance and turned back to face the horde.

  “What are you doing?” Scythe screamed as she almost ran into him.

  “Go!” he shouted, waving her and Norr on past. “Go!”

  The pair hesitated, but as he reached up for the Ring on his neck they understood and took off. Once again Keegan struggled to get the Talisman over a finger with only one hand, but it was easier than the last time.

  The power of the Ring ripped through him, knocking him off his feet. It wasn’t as strong as it had been in the Danaan Forest, but it was far, far greater than what he had felt in the Guardian’s lair.

  For a second he thought the Ring would overwhelm him, and he teetered on the brink of insanity. But he had used the Ring before. He knew he was strong enough to master it, and he slowly dragged his consciousness back from the precipice. Then, still lying on the ground where he had collapsed, he began to gather Chaos.

  The yeti horde was closer now—only fifty yards away, their shrieking laughter almost deafening. There wasn’t time for subtlety or precision, and even if there was, Keegan’s entire focus was on trying to keep the Chaos building inside from breaking free in a single explosion that blew his frail mortal shell apart.

  Gritting his teeth against the energy threatening to burst through his skin, he grabbed Rexol’s staff from the snow at his side and used it to haul himself back to his feet. Then he opened his mouth and screamed.

  His voice was transformed into a blast of blinding blue light that rippled out in a concussive wave, washing over the onrushing yeti. The front ranks were pulverized, hit so hard the fur was ripped from their flesh as their bones shattered into dust. Those close behind were lifted from their feet and thrown a hundred feet through the air, spewing blood from their nostrils and throats as their internal organs liquefied from the impact. Those farther back—by far the greatest number—were knocked back and sent sprawling to the ground, shaken and stunned but not mortally wounded.

  In the wake of the spell Keegan toppled forward, still conscious but too weak to break his fall as he landed face-first in the snow.

  Jerrod didn’t hear Keegan’s scream—the spell directed it at the yeti and away from his friends—but he felt its power as the ground beneath his feet heaved and shook, sending a shower of snow and small rocks to rain down on the narrow pass.

  Scythe and Norr, like Jerrod, had retreated into the safety of the first few feet of the Serpent’s Tongue as Keegan unleashed his spell. Now they turned and rushed back to help their fallen comrade. But Jerrod got their first, his limbs propelled by the internalized Chaos he had spent decades in the Monastery learning to control.

  The yeti were no longer howling; those that survived were dazed, temporarily paralyzed by Keegan’s spell. How long that would last, the monk had no idea.

  Reaching the young mage’s side, he yanked the Ring off his finger lest the Talisman’s power run wild and destroy the Savior. Keegan’s eyes were open and alert at first, but they fluttered closed as Jerrod removed the Ring.

  He was instinctively keeping the Chaos in check, Jerrod realized. He’s getting stronger!

  But that would mean little if the yeti decided to continue their pursuit once they recovered. Jerrod shed his pack and stripped off Keegan’s own, then effortlessly slung the young man up over one shoulder. With his free hand, he scooped up the supply packs, knowing that without food and extra blankets to stay warm they’d never survive the journey. And then he raced off back into the Serpent’s Tongue. As he expected, Norr and Scythe were quick to follow.

  Even carrying Keegan and both packs, Jerrod was able to navigate the uneven ground faster than the others, and Scythe and Norr were soon left far behind. The Frozen East limited his abilities, yet his Sight still gave him surer footing, and his training still gave him far greater reserves of energy than those outside the Order. Yet he was only halfway through the Serpent’s Tongue when he heard the howls of the yeti begin once more.

  He’d hoped the beasts would flee in terror after witnessing Keegan’s power, but something compelled them to ignore their fear.

  Is their hunger for the Sword really so great? Or is something else to blame?

  Their cries were tentative at first, confused and disoriented. But they quickly transformed into the familiar call of the hunt, and Jerrod didn’t need his Sight to know they were being followed into the pass.

  He reached the other end a few minutes later, the rock walls on either side stopping abruptly as the Serpent’s Tongue spilled out onto a wide, snow-covered plain of gently rolling hills. He tossed the packs to the ground, then lay Keegan down before turning and rushing back to aid the others.

  Norr and Scythe were three-quarters of the way through the pass, standing shoulder to shoulder with their backs to Jerrod. They had shed their supply packs; the bags lay at their feet as the pair braced themselves for the inevitable battle. The young woman had her daggers out, and Norr held the hilt of Daemron’s sword with both hands, one clasped overtop the other. The silver blade seemed to pulse with a barely visible red glow.

  The monk raced up to stand with them, the pass just wide enough at this point for all three to stand abreast.

  “Thought you ditched us,” Scythe snarled, not taking her eyes from the pass ahead.

  “I had to get Keegan to safety,” he answered. “We cannot let any of these monsters get past us—he is still unconscious.”

  There wasn’t time for Scythe to say anything back before the first few yeti—those that had recovered quicker than the
rest—suddenly materialized around the closest bend in the pass.

  Six of the creatures threw themselves at the three humans, snarling and spitting. Scythe, in the unusual situation of facing an opponent even smaller than herself, abandoned her usual helter-skelter tactics and held her ground to meet the charge head-on. She used her blades to slap away the swiping claws of the first beast then drove her knives deep into the fur-covered belly and sliced it open. The corpse fell at her feet, a wispy cloud of steam rising from the wound as warm blood met the cold air.

  Jerrod employed a similarly direct method, driving his foot straight forward in a front kick that caved in the face of the nearest yeti before it was close enough to use its claws.

  But it was Norr who truly blunted the assault. Instead of standing to meet the charge, he stepped forward, Daemron’s blade carving a wide arc in front of him. The front stroke decapitated one yeti and chopped another in half diagonally from shoulder to hip. The backswing took out two more with similar ease.

  “Fall back!” Jerrod shouted, and the three of them scampered backward through the pass.

  They got around the next bend before another five yeti reached them. Three came straight for them, but the other two scampered up the sides of the pass, their claws easily finding purchase on the sheer vertical surface. In seconds they were thirty feet up, high above the heads of the humans on the ground. But instead of attacking from above, they kept on going, heading for the exit of the Serpent’s Tongue and the unconscious young man just beyond.

  “Keegan!” Jerrod shouted, wheeling off in pursuit.

  “Go help him,” Norr shouted at Scythe. “I can hold the pass!”

  Scuttling along the wall the yeti were fast, but Jerrod was still able to run them down. He caught them just as they reached the end of the pass, and when they dropped back to the ground he was waiting.

  A quick flurry of punches broke the ribs of one, driving a splinter of bone into its heart as it crumpled in a heap. The other leapt on Jerrod’s back and sunk its teeth into his shoulder as he targeted its companion, but couldn’t pull out fast enough to keep the monk from seizing it by the fur. He dropped to the ground, twisting so that his weight came down on top of the yeti, momentarily stunning it. Then he spun so that his feet were facing the other way and scissored his legs around the yeti’s head. Squeezing with his knees and arching his back, he snapped the beast’s neck.

  As he sprang to his feet three more yeti appeared; like their brethren they had gone up and over Norr rather than face the big man’s wrath head-on. But Scythe was hot on their heels, and she dropped two with her blades in the same amount of time it took Jerrod to eliminate the third.

  The battle had drawn them past the mouth of the pass and out onto the plateau beyond. Peeking back into the Serpent’s Tongue, Jerrod saw Norr slowly making his way toward them in a fighting retreat under the crush of the relentless assault. He was drenched in blood though almost none of it was his own. Daemron’s Sword was a blur of motion, even to Jerrod’s mystical Sight, raining death down upon the enemy. But though scores were falling, hundreds more pressed forward, clogging the pass with their numbers. Several dozen had taken to the walls, crawling above Norr’s reach and past him like a swarm of insects about to be disgorged onto the plain.

  The barbarian glanced back over his shoulder and in his gaze Jerrod could see what he meant to do.

  “Norr!” Scythe screamed as she turned and saw him surrounded on all sides—front, back, and above—by the gibbering, laughing yeti.

  She took a step toward him, but fell forward as Jerrod dropped her from behind with a quick blow to the back of her knee. The strike wasn’t meant to injure; it was only meant to slow her down.

  At the same time Norr raised Daemron’s Sword high above his head then chopped down into the side of the pass. The rock exploded where the blade hit, sending a cloud of debris raining down and a thunderous boom echoing through the pass.

  Norr struck a second time, ignoring the enemies all around him, releasing the power of Old Magic. The noise that followed was so loud it caused the earth to tremble, and instead of a cloud of shattered rock the blow unleashed a shower of bright red sparks. The reverberations shook the entire mountain, bringing down a deluge of ice and stone as the walls of the pass began to crumble.The climbing yeti stopped their advance, clutching desperately to their perches to keep from being dislodged.

  Scythe was back on her knees, but instead of turning on Jerrod she stared in horror at the man she loved. For the third time Norr raised the blade and brought it crashing down into the rock. A brilliant flash of crimson exploded out and a wide fissure erupted in the stone as it split. The crack raced up the side of the rock face, spiderwebbing outward with a high-pitched, earsplitting shriek that sent the yeti into a frenzied panic.

  “No!” Scythe screamed as Norr turned toward them and threw Daemron’s Sword.

  It hurtled toward them, spinning end over end before landing tip down in the snow a few feet away. And then, with a great roar, the entire pass collapsed on itself, burying Norr and the entire yeti army under an avalanche of rock and snow.

  Chapter 34

  DESPITE BEING TRAPPED inside the Crown, Rexol saw everything. Far more than Cassandra, at least. For even though his perceptions were limited to the people and places close to her, the young woman was blinded by the exhaustion and terror of her desperate flight.

  Distracted by their slaughter of the Inquisitors, the Crawling Twins had once again fallen behind. Even the Minions weren’t fast enough to keep up with Cassandra on horseback. But horses needed to eat and sleep; they grew tired after days of endless travel. The abominations chasing them did not.

  To keep ahead of them, Cassandra had gone without sleep for days. She’d switched her horse twice, but the mount she was on now was already starting to tire. And still the Crawling Twins were coming.

  Cassandra had given in to her most primal fears, and Rexol knew he was partly to blame. The spell he’d used to drive the Twins into a frenzy so they’d attack the Inquisitors had affected the young woman as well. There was still a powerful connection between her and her former Master, and he had inadvertently sent her into a prolonged state of almost mindless panic.

  At first, Rexol had thought this might make her easier to control. He’d tried to convince her to place the Crown atop her head, inserting his own words and ideas into her mind. But the fear response he’d triggered made her instinctively reject the foreign presence, her consciousness fleeing from him just as her body fled from the Twins.

  Yet some part of her was still rational and sane. She was still heading toward Callastan. And she was still careful to give a wide berth to towns and villages when possible, lest she unwittingly throw more innocent victims into the path of the Minions. And little by little, her sanity was returning.

  How long until she realizes Yasmin has begun another Purge? he wondered.

  Through Cassandra’s senses, he’d smelled the oily scent of burning flesh as she crept past villages in the dead of night. He’d heard the crackling of massive bonfires. And he’d noticed a distinct lack of any other Chaos users once they entered the Southlands.

  Like calls to like. I should be able to sense them—the echo of briar witches casting spells in their camps outside town, or the faint stirrings of a court mage enacting a ritual to bring good luck to a wealthy patron’s latest business venture.

  Rexol had always looked on such people with contempt and scorn; they were not true wizards. What they could do barely counted as magic in his eyes. But despite the frailty of their power, he’d always felt their presence in the background. The touch of Chaos was unmistakable and hard to ignore. Now, however, those with any kind of power had gone into hiding. Any magic they used would only be to hide their true nature from the Order’s Inquisitors.

  Perhaps this is a good thing, Rexol realized.

  If the Order was busy hunting down rogue Chaos users, they wouldn’t be looking for Cassandra. And average folk
would be less likely to approach or even speak about a lone woman riding through little-used paths and trails—despite what the Order believed, most people would rather not expose others to the wrath of the Inquisitors.

  If Yasmin was too busy with her own petty political wars to interfere in what truly mattered, Cassandra might actually make it to Callastan without getting discovered. Though what would happen once they reached the city even Rexol couldn’t guess.

  Vaaler could see the exhaustion on the faces of the clan warriors as he slopped food into their bowls. It had become a permanent feature, not just for the ones coming back from the battlefield, but also those heading out to fight again.

  For days they had been engaged in an endless series of hit-and-run battles with the Danaan, rotating their warriors in and out in a desperate attempt to halt the enemy progress before they reached the massive refugee camp at the Giant’s Maw. But nothing they did seemed to slow their progress.

  The Danaan army had changed tactics after the first battle, abandoning the widespread patrols and moving as a single, tightly bunched unit that marched inexorably forward, day after day. It quickly became clear they were following the trail of the refugees, plotting a direct course for the Giant’s Maw. There was no subtlety or tactical genius in this decision, and at first Vaaler thought the enemy was making a critical mistake. He knew exactly where the Danaan were headed, and—given their near-constant rate of progress—he knew exactly how long it would take for them to reach any given point along that journey.

  Without having to worry about enemy patrols scouting ahead, the clans were able to set devastating ambushes, carefully choosing the perfect terrain at various points along the route and setting up their warriors in precise locations. Each of these traps had been an incredible success, with Danaan casualties outnumbering those of the clans by nearly five to one. But still the enemy refused to change course.