Chaos Unleashed (14 page)

“We killed five at the farm,” Shalana said. “And seven riders when we caught up with you in the woods.”

“And two more here in the tavern,” Vaaler added. “I think that’s all of them.”

Milliss, the young woman, put her hands up to her face, her eyes brimming with tears. Then she stepped over and wrapped her arms around Vaaler in a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’ve saved us all.”

Looking awkwardly over at Shalana, Vaaler untangled himself from the girl’s gratitude.

“We don’t have much to repay you,” the father said. “Hirk and his crew took almost everything of value. But whatever we can spare is yours.”

“We need supplies,” Vaaler said. “And a place to rest for the night.” Then he added, “There are fourteen of us in all.”

“You’re welcome to stay here in the tavern,” the barkeep told them.

“We can feed you tonight, but we don’t have enough food in stock to get you very far,” his wife warned.

“What about the rest of the town?” Milliss said. “They’ve been storing up for winter. Hiding and rationing food since the soldiers came. Maybe they have enough to spare?”

Her father hesitated, then nodded his agreement.

“The people here will want to show their gratitude,” he told Vaaler. “If you’re willing, I’d like them to come here tomorrow to meet you.”

Vaaler looked over at Shalana. “I think we can spare one day,” she said. “It’ll give us time to recover from the battle.”

“Go across to Irven’s shop,” the barkeep told his daughter. “Tell him what’s happened. Have him send his sons out to the surrounding farms to share the news.”

Milliss turned and vanished through the kitchen door the instant he was finished speaking.

“She’s been cooped up in those smuggler’s tunnels for too long,” Vaaler noted. “Probably dying to go outside.”

Shalana didn’t follow what he meant but the words weren’t meant for her anyway.

“I only have enough beds for four,” the barkeep apologized. “The rest of you will have to sleep here in the tavern.”

“I’m so used to sleeping on the ground that I doubt a bed would do me much good anyway,” Vaaler said.

“I’ll send Genny and Sill back to the camp to get our stuff and bring it here,” Shalana added. “They’ll welcome spending a night with a roof over our heads and a warm meal in our bellies, even if we all sleep here on the floor.”

Vaaler was roused from his slumber the next morning by the smell of freshly baked bread. He stood up and stretched, amazed at how rested and refreshed he felt. He’d gotten used to sleeping on the road, wrapped tightly in blankets to ward off the chill. Even so, it was nice to have a night where the wind wasn’t whistling by his ears or the damp morning dew seeping through his bedclothes.

Shalana and the others were already up. They were gathered at the bar, laughing and chatting among themselves in Verlsung as they feasted on eggs, bacon, and buns. Vaaler made his way over to the bar to find a plate had been set aside for him. In addition to what everyone else had been served, there was a small bowl of wild berries.

“Milliss picked those just for you,” Shalana said, grinning. If she was jealous of the young woman, she didn’t show it.

She knows she’s got nothing to worry about.

“It would be rude not to eat them,” he said, giving his love a wink as he popped one into his mouth.

The berry was so tart it made his mouth pucker and his eyes water.

“Those aren’t really in season yet,” the barkeep said as he emerged from the kitchen. “But Milliss wanted to get you something special.”

“Very kind of her,” Shalana said, trying not to laugh. “It would be rude not to eat them,” she reminded Vaaler.

Somehow, he managed to finish off the bowl, hiding the bitter taste with generous mouthfuls of egg and bread.

“The townsfolk have gathered outside,” the barkeep told him once he was finished. “They’re waiting to meet you.”

“We’re ready if you are,” Shalana said.

“No sense keeping them waiting,” Vaaler replied.

The crowd outside was far larger than he’d expected: nearly sixty men, women, and children had gathered in the middle of the dusty road going through town.

They must have come from every farm in a ten-mile radius,
Vaaler thought.

As soon as he and Shalana emerged from the tavern, a smattering of applause broke out. As their honor guard came out to join them, the applause spread until the entire crowd was cheering enthusiastically.

It continued for nearly twenty seconds before an older, portly man stepped forward and held up his hand, calling for silence. Based on his age and the way he carried himself, Vaaler guessed he was the mayor or some other kind of elected official.

“My name is Lember,” the man said, his voice carrying to the farthest edges of the crowd. “Reeve of Othlen. On behalf of our village, we offer you great thanks for liberating us from the monsters who terrorized our homes!”

Again, the crowd broke into cheers. The reeve let them continue for a few seconds, then motioned for quiet.

“We have gathered here today not only to thank you,” he continued. “But to offer our support for your cause. Whatever you need—food, weapons, horses—we will give you.”

“Thank you,” Vaaler said, staring out at the crowd. “The food is welcome, but we have weapons of our own. A packhorse or two might be useful, but most of us aren’t used to riding—we will travel better on foot.”

“Make a list of what you need, and we will have it for you by nightfall,” the reeve promised.

A short, stocky man of about forty stepped forward from the crowd. His leather smock was black with scorch marks, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders were so thick they seemed ready to burst from his shirt.

Must be the local blacksmith.

“I’m Irven,” he said, executing a clumsy bow in Vaaler’s direction. “My sons and I want to volunteer to join your army.”

He pointed a beefy thumb back over his shoulder at three young men, short but as thick across the chest as their father.

“You want to come with us to Callastan?” Vaaler said, confused by the unexpected offer.

“Callastan?” the reeve said. “We thought you were heading to Shelder next.”

Vaaler quickly consulted the image of the childhood map still lodged in his memory: Shelder was the next town over, roughly two days ride from Othlen.

“My sister lives in Shelder,” the smith said. “They’ve had trouble with soldiers, too.”

“Hirk’s group aren’t the only mercenaries in the area,” the reeve explained. “Several of the other nearby towns are suffering just as we were.”

“I’m sorry,” Shalana chimed in. “But I think there’s been some confusion. We didn’t come here to liberate your town. What happened was just a fortunate accident. We need to get to Callastan.”

There was some grumbling from the crowd, but it stopped when the reeve held up his hand.

“Have the Free Cities decided to try to break the siege, then?” he asked.

“What siege?” Vaaler asked.

“The Pontiff’s army has surrounded Callastan. I would have thought that news would have reached the Free Cities by now.”

“What do the Free Cities have to do with us?” Shalana asked.

“Aren’t you one of the patrols from the Free Cities?” the reeve asked.

“Do we look like we’re from the Free Cities?” Vaaler replied.

“I…I don’t know,” the reeve answered. “I’ve never been there. None of us has.”

Vaaler wasn’t surprised by the admission—the Free Cities were at least a week farther north and west. It was doubtful anyone in a small town like Othlen would ever need to go there. All they would know about the Free Cities were tales told by travelers and merchants passing through; to them they would seem like wild, exotic locations populated by strange people wearing even stranger clothes.

Can’t really blame them for assuming that’s where we came from. Makes a lot more sense than the truth.

“We heard a rumor the Free Cities were sending out patrols to protect the nearby villages from the Order’s mercenaries,” the reeve explained. “We thought we were too far away to get help, then you showed up.”

“We were just passing through,” Shalana said. “We can’t stay.”

“If you leave,” the barkeep said, stepping out from where he stood behind Vaaler near the door of his tavern, “it won’t be long before another group of soldiers comes to claim this town for their own.”

“Please,” the smith said, “Hirk and his crew were bad, but I heard the ones in Shelder are even worse.”

“You won’t have to do this alone,” the reeve promised. “Irven and his sons aren’t the only ones who will join you.”

“He’s right,” a young man said, stepping forward from the crowd. “You saved my farm last night,” he said, nodding at Shalana. “I won’t be a helpless victim again! If you give me a weapon, I’ll fight with you when you go to Shelder.”

“So will I!” a voice called out from the crowd.

“Me, too!” another chimed in.

“We can’t waste our time clearing out every band of rogue mercenaries and deserters wandering the countryside,” Shalana whispered in Vaaler’s ear. “Not if you want to get to Callastan anytime soon.”

She was right, of course. But even if they got to Callastan, what would they do next? He’d been hoping they could find Keegan and the others while they were looking for Cassandra. But if the Order had an army camped outside the city walls, what help could his small group of warriors be? They’d never even get close to the city.

The fate of the mortal world is at stake,
Vaaler thought.
But do I really have any part in that anymore? I already abandoned Jerrod’s cause to help Shalana and the clans. How is this any different?

“If Callastan is under siege, then going there would be suicide,” Vaaler said, speaking softly to Shalana. “We’d be throwing our lives away for no reason.

“And these people need us,” he continued. “We can make a real difference here. I don’t know if I can just turn my back on them.”

Shalana smiled and reached out to grasp Vaaler’s shoulder, turning him slightly so they were staring directly into each other’s eyes.

“We are not here because of the blind monk’s prophecy,” she told him. “We are here because of you. We trust your judgment. And so should you.

“If you feel your destiny has led you here to help these people, then that is what we must do. Whatever you decide, we will stand with you.”

Her words crystallized and clarified what had moments ago seemed so confusing.
Keegan and Scythe don’t need me—they have the Talismans. Whatever part I had to play in their destiny has come and gone; the fate of the mortal world is in their hands now, not mine.

The fate of the villagers before him, however, was another matter. These people were suffering. They needed help.

I can’t turn my back on these people. This is where I belong.

Turning to the crowd, he called out in a loud voice, “Tomorrow we march on Shelder, and we welcome anyone who will march with us!”

C
ASSANDRA NO LONGER
fought against Rexol’s presence in her dreams. After witnessing the gruesome ritual of the Slayer’s Minion, she had finally embraced the necessity of becoming his student. Yet at the same time she wasn’t ready simply to cast aside everything she had learned in the Monastery, and she remained guarded even as she began her apprenticeship.

Each night in her dreams she would find herself studying at his feet. And in the surreal realm of her subconscious, her studies were progressing at an astonishing rate. In a single night she could grasp what might take months to fully understand in the real world, the knowledge passing from Rexol directly into her eager, hungry mind.

She didn’t have a use for everything he taught her; many of the lessons were focused on the ways a wizard could summon and control the power of Chaos. And though she couldn’t help but learn something of the mage’s art, she made no real effort to memorize the spells and incantations Rexol shared with her. Without Chaos root to open her mind, she reasoned, even the simplest spell would be far too taxing.

The underlying theory of his lessons, however, was immensely valuable. It had helped her understand the fundamental nature of Chaos. In many ways it was like a living thing though its existence was awash in paradoxes. It could be incredibly malleable and pliant, yet at the same time it was stubbornly resistant to a mage’s will.

The teachings of the Order were rigid and dogmatic; they had given her will great strength, but at the cost of flexibility. With Rexol’s help, her mind was becoming more adaptable and versatile—a key component in mastering and manipulating Chaos.

Most important, Rexol was teaching her how to draw on the Crown. The Talisman had seemingly limitless reserves of power she could tap into, as long as she was careful.

Your caution is a by-product of what you learned in the Monastery,
Rexol told her.
It is holding you back.

Cassandra knew there was no point in arguing with him. The wizard was far too rash; even the destruction of his physical form hadn’t quelled his recklessness. And for all the wisdom he had shared with her, his imprisonment inside the Crown had clearly driven him insane.

Each time she drew from the Crown, she felt Rexol lurking. Watching and waiting for her to drop her guard so he could swoop in and seize control of her body, as he’d done when she placed the Talisman atop her head during the battle with the Crawling Twins. But Cassandra wasn’t about to let the mad wizard escape again. Instead of wearing the Crown, she would only reach out to it with her mind, barely brushing up against the edges of its power.

Even that was enough for her. The injuries to her legs were almost completely healed; she was able to stand and walk without pain. In another day or two her limbs would be fully restored.

Why wait another day? Do it now! You know you can if you just dare to wear the Crown!

She was grateful to Methodis for all he had done for her, but soon she would be ready to leave his care. The army of Inquisitors outside Callastan only added to her urgency to leave, but she had to be careful. Methodis had warned her there were rumors that the Pontiff had agents inside the city looking for her. But that wasn’t the only problem she faced. Even if she could slip past the Order and leave Callastan, she still had no idea where to go.

Daemron feels it in the back of his horned skull—a faint but relentless thrumming, like the waves beating endlessly against the shore. At first he tries to ignore it; he has other troubles on his mind. His armies grow restless, impatiently waiting for the Legacy to fall. Centuries of pent-up anger and frustration simmer and bubble, and his generals are not strong enough to keep it from boiling over in skirmishes among the troops.

Sometimes his soldiers argue over who must take next watch. Other times, one is caught stealing rations from another. The fights typically end in bloodshed. The losers that survive these confrontations are immediately culled: crucified to serve as an example for the rest. Supplies are scarce, and weakness will not be tolerated.

Daemron does nothing to quell the sporadic outbursts of violence. It means the troops are primed for battle. The war they are about to fight will not be won with discipline and tactics; fury and rage are the hallmarks of his forces. Yet he also understands the precariousness of his position. If the Legacy does not fall soon, his troops will tear each other apart.

Or finally turn against me.

If the generals feel he is waiting too long—if they start to believe his promises that the Legacy will fall are nothing but a trick to hold on to power—they will betray him. He is still far stronger than they can imagine, but together they have the numbers to overwhelm him.

For now, they are scattered—each leading a portion of his forces deployed in search of locations where the Legacy is most fragile. When the barrier finally collapses, it will not come down all at once. Chunks will crumble and fall away, exposing portals that connect to the mortal world. He can use these portals to send his army through and begin the invasion…but first they must be found.

A dozen military camps dot the barren landscape of his kingdom, separated by many leagues. He visits each one every two or three days, soaring above the troops so they see him, watching from above—a constant reminder of who they serve.

But today he must cut his rounds short. The pounding in the back of his head has become too insistent to ignore. At first he dismissed it as the distant rumblings of Chaos, seeping through the fraying Legacy. Now, however, he recognizes it for what it truly is: a call from his Minions in the mortal world.

He is loath to abandon his army, even for a day—their leash must be kept taut. But he must heed the call, and so he returns from the camps to his now-abandoned capital city. With powerful beats, his wings take him high above the spires of his castle, to the dome above his inner sanctum. Then he folds his wings and drops like a stone, plummeting through the hole in the roof and hurtling headfirst toward the floor.

At the last second he unfurls his wings and flips around, landing on his feet hard enough to send a reverberating crash echoing off the walls of his sanctum. The stone floor beneath his hooves cracks from the force of the impact, sending up a small cloud of dust, but he cares nothing for the damage. He has turned his focus back to the mortal world, and now he realizes everything here—the city, the castle, even his inner sanctum—is worthless and wretched.

The pounding in his head continues, like an angry, urgent fist hammering on a door. He takes a deep breath, forcing a calm to fall over him. He closes his eyes and pushes away thoughts of the approaching invasion and his fears of betrayal, leaving only a vast emptiness inside his mind.

Instantly images from the mortal world rush in to fill it: the fall of the Monastery at his Minion’s hands; the splintering of his followers; a dragon, slaughtered by the power of his Ring; the rise of the ogre; armies marching into battle; the return of the Guardian; and, finally, Chaos unleashed by the Crown and a city under siege.

His eyes snap open as the scattered images assemble into a message from Orath—a warning and a cry for help. The Children of Fire—the four mortals touched by his spell from long ago—are far stronger than even he imagined. They haven’t just found his Talismans—they are actually learning to control them. Of the Minions, only Orath still lives; one lone survivor from seven of his most powerful followers. And despite the destruction of the Monastery, the Order still survives…and they are close to recovering the Crown.

Daemron tilts his head back and bellows his rage to the sky. Orath has failed. His mission was to find the Talismans and bring down the Legacy. Instead, the mortals now have the weapons they need to stand against his army. Perhaps they even have the power to kill an Immortal.

He takes deep, angry breaths, snorting like a bull until he regains his composure.

All is not lost. The Children of Fire are using the Talismans, but they still do not understand their true nature. And they have not all joined forces yet. There is still hope.

A plan begins to form in his mind, a way to hasten the fall of the Legacy. He recalls his recent dream: the Old Gods, gathered at the Keystone to enact the ritual that banished him. He didn’t understand at the time, but now he knows the purpose of the vision. He realizes there is a way to make sure he knows exactly where the first breach will happen.

Sending a reply to Orath will be difficult, but he has reached across the Burning Sea to touch the mortal world before. This time will be easier than the last; the Legacy is fading, and instead of having to navigate the vastness of the Burning Sea he can simply retrace the path of Orath’s message back to the source.

For a few days he will be drained: exhausted and vulnerable. But the generals will be too busy to plot against him during that time. He will send out orders that the scattered camps must be struck; the generals must rally his entire army at a single location. The Legacy is still strong at the Keystone, but that is where the invasion will begin. And, if his plan works, the Children of Fire will be the ones who open the way.

Orath hadn’t left the cellar since performing the ritual that sent the call out to his master. For three days he’d waited patiently for the inevitable response, so when it finally came he was eager to receive it.

Like his own message, it arrived in the form of disconnected images, one rolling into another in a rapid-fire stream. But Daemron’s call was far more powerful than the one Orath had sent out. When the Minion opened his mind, it was nearly overwhelmed by the raw power of an Immortal’s will flooding in.

His head snapped back and he hissed in pain, the images searing his thoughts as they burned themselves indelibly into his consciousness. But with the suffering came knowledge, and as the pain slowly faded away Orath understood the trap his master had set.

He was not the only one who would be affected by Daemron’s call. There were some among the mortals—prophets and Seers with Chaos in their blood—who would pick up echoes and reflections of what Orath had seen. But they would only see what Daemron wanted them to see: carefully crafted visions to lure them into the trap.

Orath still had to play his part, of course. So far he had failed in his mission; Daemron was clearly displeased. Yet there was still a chance to redeem himself. The growing army of monks and soldiers just outside the city walls was not part of his master’s plan; he could not allow the Crown to fall back into the Order’s hands.

The Crown must be brought to the Keystone.

The Children of Fire had found the Talismans. They had called upon their ancient power and unleashed Chaos into the mortal world. But now that power was about to be turned against them.

Cassandra stands on a beach of white sand, the waves of the
Western
Sea
lapping against the shore at her back. A massive obelisk of black obsidian stands before her, reaching up fifty feet into the sky.

She takes a slow step forward, inexorably drawn to the smooth, dark stone. As she draws closer she sees runes carved into the sides, and she can sense something moving beneath the surface of the rock.

It reminds her of the Monastery. The spirits of devoted monks who passed from the mortal realm lived on inside the stone walls, watching over their brethren in the Order. Like the True Gods, they sacrificed themselves so that their essence could help protect the Monastery and keep its enemies at bay.

“But the Monastery has fallen,” Rexol reminded her.

In her vision, the wizard wasn’t speaking from inside her head; he was standing beside her, his body whole once more.

Ignoring him, Cassandra reaches out and lays her left palm against the obelisk. The stone surface is warm from the sun, and she can feel it tingling beneath her touch.

The sky above them explodes in a panoply of colors—millions of bright beams of red, blue, yellow, and green shoot back and forth, interweaving to form a massive dome of brilliant white light.

“The Legacy!” Cassandra gasps, awestruck at the beauty of the final gift the True Gods bestowed upon the mortal world.

She had never heard of the Keystone before—if the Pontiff or any in the Order knew of its existence, they had never shared their knowledge with her. Yet as she stared up in amazement at the brightness in the sky, she instinctively knew what the obelisk was and what it was called. This was where the True Gods had sacrificed themselves to banish the Slayer. This was where the Legacy had been born.

“It’s fading,” Rexol notes.

To her dismay, Cassandra sees that he speaks the truth. Now that her initial wonder has passed, she notices that the glowing magnificence of the Legacy is marred by small, scattered patches where it has turned dull and gray.

As she watches, the gray patches begin to multiply. They begin to grow and spread, joining together to swallow up the pristine whiteness. And as the Legacy fades, Cassandra is able to sense what waits on the other side: Daemron the Slayer and his monstrous hordes.