Chaos Unleashed (11 page)

Suddenly Jerrod understood what Keegan was actually trying to tell him. And he realized why the young man was acting so much like his mentor.

It’s a performance! He’s trying to scare and intimidate the prisoner!

“I am a Chaos mage!” Keegan declared. “Do you really doubt that I have the power to compel an ordinary soldier to obey me?”

“Forgive me,” Jerrod said, bowing and taking a step back. Now that he knew the game, he understood how to play his own role. “I would never doubt you, Keegan of the Gorgon Staff.”

The young man’s eyebrow twitched upward at the unexpected title, but fortunately the soldier at his feet didn’t notice.

“But I beg you to be careful,” the monk added. “If you summon too much Chaos, the mark you place on the prisoner will be unstable. If something goes wrong, it will explode and we will all be turned into ash.”

The soldier’s wide eyes were fixed on Jerrod as the monk slowly retreated, leaving him and Keegan alone beside the fire. Then his gaze snapped back to Keegan looming over him.

“You don’t have to do this,” the man begged. “I won’t tell the Order about you. I promise! I’ll go to the Free Cities just like you said! I’ll tell them what happened here!”

Keegan slapped the man’s check with his good hand, though not particularly hard.

“There is no other way. I bind you to my will, or we execute you. This is your choice.”

The soldier swallowed, then nodded slowly.

Keegan began a soft chant. Jerrod had no idea if he was speaking actual words of power or pure gibberish. Then he reached into the fire pit and pulled out a small stick—charred, but still intact. To Jerrod’s surprise, the stick flickered with blue light and thin wisps of smoke curled up from the tip.

“Hold still,” Keegan commanded, slowly bringing the stick toward the still-kneeling prisoner.

The soldier clenched his eyes shut as Keegan touched the tip of the stick to his forehead. He let out a low moan and gritted his teeth as the mage made a few quick strokes, tracing out a simple circle with several diagonal slashes. Outlined in ash, the mark glowed faintly with a blue aura for several seconds.

“It burns,” the soldier whimpered though Jerrod suspected he was more scared than in pain.

Keegan’s voice rose higher, the strange words coming more quickly now. He spat them out, harsh and bitter, then cast the glowing stick aside.

The soldier opened his eyes, then closed them as Keegan reached out with the stump of his left hand and pressed it against the mark on the soldier’s brow. There was a brief but intense blue flash. Knocked off-balance, the soldier let out a yelp of surprise as he fell over backward.

“It is done!” Keegan declared, drawing his stump in a quick horizontal slash in front of his chest. “On your feet!”

The soldier scrambled to get up, then stood at attention before the young man.

“What’s your name?” Keegan demanded.

“Darm. Darmmid, I mean. But everyone calls me Darm.”

“You are bound to me now, Darmmid,” Keegan told him. “Do you understand what this means?”

The soldier nodded but didn’t speak.

“My mark is working its way inside you. It’s in your brain. Your guts. Can you feel it? Churning in your stomach? Making you sweat and tremble?”

“Yes,” the terrified soldier whispered, the power of suggestion making perspiration break out on his forehead. “I feel it.”

“This sickness will soon pass. But it will return if you even think about betraying me. It will grow stronger with each passing second. The Chaos will burn away your organs, melting them insider your body. You will die writhing in agony, and no one will be able to save you!”

The soldier moaned but didn’t speak.

“You are mine now, Darmmid,” Keegan pressed. “I own you. I am your master, and you will obey me!”

The soldier nodded.

“Say it!” Keegan barked.

“I will obey you, master! I promise!”

Satisfied, Keegan stepped back.

“Grab enough food for a week and go. The Free Cities are waiting for you.”

Scythe watched the terrified mercenary fumbling with the supply packs, his hands shaking so badly he could barely loosen the knots at the top. He glanced up once and saw her staring, then quickly averted his eyes.

A few minutes later he had somehow managed to gather what he needed, and he set off in the early-morning light. He was heading northwest, toward the Free Cities, but she wondered how long he would keep that path. Once he was out of earshot she made her way over to where Keegan and Jerrod were standing together, watching the prisoner’s rapid departure.

“Quite the performance,” Scythe remarked. “But sooner or later he’s going to realize it was all just a trick.”

“Maybe not,” Jerrod said. “The power of suggestion can be very powerful. His own mind will be working to maintain the illusion.

“Every time he feels anxious or nervous or even just sick to his stomach, he will blame it on Keegan, which will only reinforce his belief that he has been bound to the will of a Chaos mage.”

“You seem to know a lot about tricking people into believing things that aren’t real,” Scythe remarked. “Must be a religious thing.”

Jerrod didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’m more concerned about the Chaos you unleashed during this charade,” he said to Keegan. “It seemed an unnecessary risk.”

“I had to do something to make him believe the ritual was real,” the young man objected.

Scythe noticed that the arrogant tone he’d been using was gone from his voice; now that the performance was over he had returned to his typical self.

“Don’t worry,” Keegan assured the monk. “I was careful. But I thought it was worth the risk.”

“It wasn’t,” Scythe said. When Keegan looked at her in confusion, she continued, “This entire thing was pointless.”

“We spared a man his life,” Keegan reminded her.

“Did we? How far do you think he’ll get on his own? If the bandits don’t get him, the Order will. I’m guessing they treat deserters about the same as they treat heretics.

“And they’ll probably torture him first. Your fake spell won’t keep him quiet once they bring out the molten iron. He’ll break and tell them everything he knows about us.”

“At least I gave the man a chance!” Keegan snapped. “At least I tried to help him!”

“The only person you helped was yourself,” Scythe countered. “This whole thing was just a way to make you feel less guilty about doing what we all know was the right thing.”

“He might make it,” Jerrod chimed in, throwing his support behind Keegan now that the task was done. “Stranger things have happened.”

“We couldn’t just kill him,” Keegan said. “If we truly are destined to save the world, we have to start with one person.”

That sounds like something Norr would say,
she thought. Maybe she was being too hard on Keegan. Maybe he really was trying to do the right thing.

Or maybe he thinks acting more like Norr will win me over.

Scythe felt a wave of disgust wash over her. Keegan wasn’t trying to keep Norr’s memory alive—he was trying to replace him!

“You’re not Norr,” she spat out. “And you never will be, so stop trying to act like him!”

“Scythe,” Keegan said, reaching out toward her. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Norr was a good man,” she said, cutting him off. “It was in his nature. We’re not like that. There’s Chaos in our blood. We are bringers of death and destruction!”

“Maybe we don’t have to be,” Keegan said. “Maybe we can change. Maybe we really can become the kind of heroes who will stop Daemron.”

“Daemron was a hero once, too,” Scythe reminded him. “And look what he became. In a thousand years, will the Order be looking for someone to save the world from us?”

“Daemron was corrupted by the darkness inside his own heart,” Jerrod said. “His pride and arrogance led him to betray the True Gods!”

“Or maybe his true nature finally showed through,” Scythe argued. “You can’t change who you are, Keegan. You’re not Norr. You’re not a hero and you never will be. Just accept it.”

“You’re upset,” the young man said. “You don’t mean that.”

“Do I look upset?” she asked, her voice calm. “I’m not saying this out of anger or spite. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

She waited for Keegan to reply, but he didn’t have anything left to say. He stared at her for a few seconds, then turned away, shaking his head.

Scythe looked over at Jerrod, who was staring at her intently. Even without the white veil obscuring his eyes, however, she still couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

When he finally spoke, all he said was, “We should eat, then move out. Callastan is still a long way off.”

“Exactly,” Scythe agreed. “We’ve already wasted more than enough time this morning.”

Y
ASMIN ARRIVED AT
the Order’s aerie in the early afternoon. It had taken her three days to make the journey from the siege camp outside Callastan, resting only a few hours each evening in deep meditation to maintain her strength.

Ermorr, the elderly Keeper of the aerie, was waiting at the gates to meet her.

“Welcome, Pontiff,” he said, tilting his head slightly in a sign of respect. “I am honored that you have chosen to grace our humble outpost with your presence.”

Yasmin waved aside his comments with an impatient hand—this was not the time for formalities.

“I trust my message was received,” she replied.

“Of course, Pontiff. Nearly a dozen of your loyal followers have gathered here as per your instructions.”

Yasmin scowled. She’d been hoping for more, but the Order’s numbers were not what they once were. And many of her supporters were already either at Callastan, or too far away from Norem to answer her call in time.

We must work with the tools we are given,
she reminded herself.

“Send word to Lord Carthin,” she said aloud. “Tell him to prepare for our arrival tonight.”

“Tonight?” Ermorr said, mildly surprised. “You do not wish to rest from your journey?”

“My business with the Justice cannot wait,” she explained. “I will leave within the hour.”

The sun was just beginning to set as Yasmin entered the Norem city gates, flanked by her eleven followers. She could have added Ermorr to their numbers, but she thought it best to leave him back at the aerie in case any urgent messages needed to be sent.

A blare of trumpets announced the Pontiff’s arrival, their call echoing across the rooftops. As she and her entourage made their way down the city streets, people flocked from the buildings to see them, crowds forming along their route like a parade. But though the people clapped and cheered, the expressions on their faces wasn’t joy or excitement, and the Pontiff suspected the enthusiastic welcome had been staged by Lord Carthin.

He knows I’m displeased with him. Does he really think he can get on my good side with such an obvious ploy?

Norem was by far the smallest of the Seven Capitals though what it lacked in size and population it made up for in arts and culture. Sculptors, painters, architects, and musicians flocked to the city en masse, eager to make their reputation and secure the patronage of one of the city’s wealthy nobles. Lord Unferth, the current City Lord, was rumored to be particularly generous when it came to rewarding those with artistic talent.

Yet even though Lord Unferth had always been a supporter of the Order, the same could not be said of many of his subjects. Unlike other City Lords, he was notoriously lax in persecuting those who spoke out against the Pontiff and her decrees. In his efforts to cultivate an atmosphere of creative freedom, he had turned a blind eye to blasphemers who hid their criticisms of the Order in their art. As a result, Norem had become a haven for heretics and nonbelievers, and when Yasmin had declared another Purge, it proved to be a focal point of resistance and rebellion.

Unferth had tried to quell the unrest in his city, but he lacked the stomach for the harsh measures. It was said he had the soul of an artist though Yasmin understood this was merely a polite way of saying he was a weak ruler.

As Justice of the Order, Lord Carthin had been right to focus his efforts on Norem. Lord Unferth had welcomed his arrival, quickly turning over control of the city to the Pontiff’s duly appointed representative.

But that was weeks ago,
Yasmin reminded herself.
More than enough time for Carthin to crush the small pockets of rebellion and bring the city into line.

Norem was laid out in a series of ever-widening circles, with the wealthiest residents living in the neighborhoods closer to the center. In the very middle of the city was a sprawling castle—the Unferth ancestral home.

Yasmin had never had reason to visit Norem before, but she had heard tales of the incredible beauty of castle Unferth. When she finally laid eyes on it, however, she was struck more by its impracticality than its majesty. There was no exterior wall to blunt the charge of an attacking army. The grounds were covered by lush gardens and hundreds of massive statues carved from marble—perfect spots for an enemy to take cover against archers inside the main building. The castle itself was long and narrow, with six spires rising along the length of its structure, each spaced far enough away from the others that defenders at one location would be unable to offer support or reinforcements to another. Worst of all, hundreds of massive stained-glass windows covered the entire building, many on ground level.

No wonder Unferth was loath to use force against his subjects,
Yasmin thought.
If they turned against him, his castle would be overrun in minutes!

As the Pontiff and her followers neared the main entrance of the castle, a small honor guard emerged: six mounted soldiers in full armor carrying red-and-gold banners surrounding a single rider wearing the city colors. To Yasmin’s surprise, however, it wasn’t Lord Carthin who had come to greet her.

“Welcome to Norem, your Eminence,” Lord Unferth said, dismounting so he could grace the Pontiff with a low bow. He was an older man, well into his fifties. At barely over five feet tall, his head barely reached up to Yasmin’s chin. His face was round and puffy, his nose red and veined from years of enjoying too much good wine. His suit was well tailored, but it couldn’t completely hide the small paunch that overhung his belt.

“My city is honored by your visit,” he added, puffing slightly from the exertion of climbing down from his horse.

“Is it still your city?” Yasmin asked.

Unferth blushed as he stammered out a reply. “I am the official ruler of Norem though I have given Lord Carthin temporary control of my soldiers so that he may deal with the rebels in our midst.”

So Carthin has added Norem’s forces to his ever-growing army.

“A noble cause,” Yasmin replied, “but not the one he is supposed to be pursuing. Were my instructions to gather our forces at Callastan not received?”

Lord Unferth looked even more uncomfortable than before. He licked his lips before saying, “I dare not speak for Justice Carthin, Pontiff.”

“Perhaps it is just as well that he speaks for himself,” Yasmin said with a nod. “I trust he is expecting us?”

“News of your arrival came this afternoon,” Unferth assured her. “Lord Carthin has prepared a special feast in your honor.

“However,” he added unexpectedly, speaking far more quickly than before, “if you are tired from the journey, I can escort you to the guest rooms so you can refresh yourself before the meeting.”

“That will not be necessary,” Yasmin assured him.

“Of course,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Lord Carthin is ready for you, then. I will take you there now.”

That was odd,
Yasmin thought. She focused the full attention of her Sight on Lord Unferth, sensing something wasn’t right. The night wasn’t particularly warm, but he was sweating profusely. And his eyes kept darting from side to side, as if wary of the soldiers escorting him.

Maybe his surrender of the city wasn’t as willing as he makes it seem. Maybe he’s a prisoner in his own castle. Maybe he was hoping to get some time alone with me to plead his case.

It wouldn’t be out of character for Carthin simply to seize control of Norem’s forces without asking. He could easily justify it as a necessary first step in restoring the Order’s authority over the city. Technically he wouldn’t be overstepping the boundaries of his office as Justice of the Order, though he would be pushing the limits.

Even more reason to have this meeting. Carthin needs to be put in his place. He needs to remember that he serves at my discretion.

Unferth took them to the main entrance of the castle on foot, leading his horse by its bridle. The six soldiers escorting him remained mounted and followed close behind.

“This is where I must leave you, Pontiff,” he said once they reached the door. “A steward will lead you to the banquet hall where Lord Carthin awaits.”

He bowed deeply once more. As he did so, he whispered in a voice so low even the Pontiff’s superior senses could barely hear him, “Don’t drink the wine!”

The door opened and Unferth stood up and turned away quickly, relinquishing Yasmin to the steward waiting on the other side before the Pontiff had a chance to even react to his cryptic warning.

“Justice Carthin is expecting you, Pontiff,” the steward said with a small tilt of his head.

He led the way into the castle, through winding halls and past countless rooms. Though she appeared outwardly calm on the journey, Yasmin’s mind was spinning.

Don’t drink the wine!

She had hoped this visit would bring Carthin back into line—a face-to-face meeting to reassert her authority. But if he was planning to betray her, there was only one way to deal with his treachery.

But is he really planning to betray me? Or is Unferth trying to use me for his own game?

If Unferth had been forced to step down, the older man would be resentful. Was he cunning enough to try to trick Yasmin into turning against Carthin with a carefully placed lie?

She glanced back over her shoulder at her Inquisitors.

There are twelve of us, all armed with quarterstaffs. We could fight our way out of here right now, and Carthin’s men couldn’t stop us all.

But if Unferth was lying, they would end up slaughtering dozens of innocent soldiers. More importantly, the relationship between her and Carthin would be destroyed, and she still had need of his troops.

None of the others had heard Unferth’s warning; only she had been close enough to pick up the faint whisper. But there was no need to warn them; if the time for action came, they would follow her lead without question or hesitation.

I just have to be certain that time has come.

The steward led them into a large banquet hall. The cavernous room could easily seat a hundred diners, but only a few tables in the center of the hall had actually been set—just enough for the Pontiff and her retinue.

But though it appeared they would be dining alone, they were not the only people in the room. Standing at attention along either side of the hall were twoscore soldiers, all fully armored and carrying long spears.

Eighty of them against twelve of us,
Yasmin noted.
Close to even odds.

At the front of the banquet hall was a raised stone platform. Typically this would have been used as a stage for whatever entertainment would be on hand to amuse the nobles during their feast. On this particular evening, however, the stone stage was occupied by a single large, ornate chair. Seated in it, and flanked by a half dozen guards on either side, was Lord Carthin himself.

It was possible the setup was meant only to feed Carthin’s ego, allowing him to look down on the Pontiff and her Inquisitors like a King lording over his subjects.

Or maybe he wants a clear view of the slaughter when he betrays us.

The soldiers along the walls seemed tense and wary. But that alone wasn’t proof of anything: Ordinary men and women were often nervous and unsettled in the presence of those who served the Order, particularly when they saw the Pontiff and the prominent burns and scarring on her bald scalp.

Along the back wall was a balcony, twenty feet above the main floor. Merchants and other tradesmen could purchase seats there to watch the entertainment while the nobles dined below, but tonight the balcony was empty.

If he was setting a trap for the Pontiff, Carthin could have placed archers on the balcony to rain arrows down on them from above. The Inquisitors could duck, dodge, or deflect some of them, but even they couldn’t survive a coordinated volley.

But if he tried to hide archers up there, he knows I would have sensed them the second we entered the banquet hall.

The steward guided Yasmin and the others to their tables, then scuttled away. Yasmin didn’t take a seat but instead leaned on her staff and looked up at Carthin, who at least had the decency to rise in her presence.

“Welcome to you and yours, Pontiff,” he called out, his voice booming and cheerful. “Please, partake of this feast we have prepared in honor of your arrival!”

The Justice of the Order was smiling—the broad grin of an overeager servant desperately seeking approval from his master.

If he’s planning betrayal, he’s doing a good job of hiding it.

Yasmin’s eyes skimmed the table, noting the extravagant feast that had been laid out. In particular, she noted that a full cup of dark red wine, already poured, had been placed at each setting.

“Are you not going to join us while we eat, Justice?” she asked.

“I am your humble servant, Pontiff,” Carthin replied. “I am not worthy to dine with you and your revered companions.”

His tone was as ingratiating as ever, and once again Yasmin could detect no hint of malice or duplicity in him.