Children of Fire (18 page)

The standing figure raised his arm; the sickle curve of a scimitar blade sliced through the darkness, slashing at the figure on the ground. Once, twice, a third time as Keegan could only sob and cry, stumbling toward the massacre.

Herrod brought his sword down for a fourth time, certain his enemy was dead yet wanting to disfigure and mutilate the corpse out of pure malice. Above the grisly sounds of his butchering his ears picked up another familiar noise: grief-stricken sobs.

He turned from his bloody work to see another figure reeling toward him through the night's gloom. His eyes searched the shadowy form for a weapon, but this one was unarmed. As his newest foe drew closer Herrod could see he was too small and thin to be a grown man; he was nothing more than a youth.

The young boy charged forward, blind with exhaustion and grief and rage. Herrod let him approach then struck the young man across the face with the hilt of his scimitar. His foe crumpled to the earth, barely conscious. Herrod reached down, grabbing his opponent by the hair and pulling him to his knees. The boy's face was drenched in blood, his broken nose jutting out at an obscene angle.

Herrod placed his lips against the lad's ear.

“Boy,” he hissed, his fist still clutching his young victim's hair, “know before you die that I will return with more men and kill everyone in this village. Those that flee I will hunt down like dogs. They will die in bloody, screaming agony, tortured for days before being slaughtered like pigs. The women will be raped until they beg for death, and only then will we grant it.”

What happened next Keegan could not later explain, could not even remember. His head was still swimming from the blow Herrod had given him, his mind covered in a blanket of pain and terror and wrath. He grabbed the Raider's wrist and a blazing blue light engulfed them both.

The Raider screamed in pain, releasing his grip on Keegan's hair. His scimitar's blade shattered into a thousand pieces. Keegan grabbed the front of the brigand's armor, his fingers ripping through the mail shirt like paper, digging into the flesh beneath like claws. The young lad rose to his feet, lifting Herrod from the ground, and began to shake the Raider violently back and forth like a child's rag doll.

The sound of snapping bones and ripping cartilage was drowned out by Herrod's shrieks and wails. A vicious crack ended the howls as his neck was broken. And still Keegan shook the body with a primal fury, the elemental power of Chaos surrounding the young wizard and his dead enemy with raging blue flames.

The townspeople found them the next morning: Gerrit's body, mercilessly hacked by the Raider's cruel sword; Keegan collapsed upon his father's corpse, shivering and sobbing and nearly comatose with shock, grief, and exhaustion. A short distance away lay the body of the Raider, his face twisted in a gruesome mask of agony, his limbs projecting from his body at grotesque, unnatural angles, dislocated and broken.

The Raiders had been defeated, not a single one had escaped the well-laid trap. Five of the townsfolk had died in the battle, including their beloved mayor, but the hundred-odd other men, women, and children knew they owed their lives to the young man who now lay recovering in the home of Elimee.

Within the confines of the Smiling Drake Tavern, Willan Coburd spoke in a voice so low the other members of the council had to strain to hear him. “What do we do about Keegan?”

Elimee snorted loudly. “You speak as if he means to harm us, Willan. He saved us all and he lost his father in the process. He sacrificed everything so that the rest of this town could live.”

Willan glanced quickly around the inside of the tavern, as if he expected Keegan to appear in one of the corners.

The old woman continued, her voice filled with anger and contempt. “Quit your sneaking, Willan! He is barely able to raise his head, let alone come here!”

“But he does not have to be here to see us,” the nervous man hissed back. “He has the Sight! He has the Gift!”

Elimee laughed. “Yes, Willan, he does. He could hear your very thoughts if it comes right down to it. Although I suspect right now he is too exhausted to call upon the Chaos flowing through his veins.”

Chastened, Willan resumed speaking in a normal voice.

“Very well, you are probably right. But we still must decide what to do about him. What happened to the Raider in the field was unnatural.” Willan's voice lowered once more as he added, “The expression on his face … he died a horrible death!”

“I wish I had been there to see it,” Adrax proclaimed loudly in his wavering voice. “He deserved no better!”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the council. Willan nodded, but held up his hand for silence.

“Of course I agree. But what happened out there was wizard's work: an unleashing of Chaos. We cannot help the boy with his power, and I doubt he can control it. The Sight is one thing, the Gift quite another. He cannot stay here.”

“No,” Elimee agreed, “he cannot stay here. But where can he go? Surely we cannot just send him off as if he were banished.”

“We could send him to the Order,” Willan suggested. “They could teach him to control his … talent. They would be most anxious to have one of his obvious power join their ranks.”

Elimee shook her head. “No. His father did not want that life for him, and I doubt Keegan wants it for himself. Besides, he is too old. The Order will no longer take him.”

“And even if they did,” Adrax added in a thin whine, “the boy will never learn to see as the Pilgrims do. They will pluck out his eyes and leave him blind.”

“We could give him to a lord's mage,” Willan declared, smoothly switching tracks. “He has the Sight, he has the Gift. He would be a boon to any court in the Southlands. Perhaps even the King's own mage will take an interest in him.”

“Yes,” Elimee agreed contemptuously, “the mages of the nobility are known to welcome those who would supplant their own position with open arms. You might as well put the poison in his drink yourself, Willan.”

“You are too harsh,” Willan chided. “There are many rumors of apprentices who meet suspicious ends, I admit. But we both know most of these rumors are spawned by the Order to discredit the mages. And Keegan needs the guidance only a lord's mage can give or his power might destroy him—and us.”

Before Elimee could counter with her own arguments, Adrax spoke up once more.

“This discussion is pointless,” he wheezed, exhausted at having taken such an active part in the meeting. “We are simple folk. None of us would even know how to contact a lord's mage.”

There was a long silence as the truth of the old man's words sank in, finally broken by Willan.

“Then what are we to do with Keegan?”

A new voice spoke from the rear of tavern. “I will take him.”

The council reacted with surprise and alarm, spinning to face this strange intruder. The doors were locked, the windows shuttered. Yet somehow the speaker had managed to sneak into the council meeting undetected.

The visitor stepped from the shadows and into the light, and the mystery of his sudden appearance was instantly explained. The black skin of the man's face, bare chest, and arms was covered in brightly colored paint and tattoos. His long dark hair was twisted into countless uneven braids. He wore half a dozen necklaces of animal teeth and bones; a few of the charms had been shaped and carved, though most were still rough and irregular. Three gleaming gemstones, each on its own separate golden chain, dangled from the lobe of his left ear, and his belt was heavy with all manner of odd curios and bizarre ornaments. The skull of some ancient, long-extinct beast perched on top of the heavy black staff clenched tightly in his right hand.

The Chaos mage crossed the room slowly but surely, not using his walking staff for support but gently thumping it on the floor as he came. The charm bracelets that covered his left arm from elbow to wrist jangled with each measured step.

“I will take him,” the intruder repeated, his voice deep and strong despite his body's aged appearance.

“Your L-L-Lordship,” Willan stammered out, “we are honored by the presence of a mage in our humble town.” Willan's mind, numb with surprise and fear, reverted to the ingratiating patter he adopted with any social superiors he wished to please. “How may we be of service to such a noble guest?”

“Keegan,” the Chaos mage replied. “The young wizard. I have listened to your conversation, and what you say is true. He must be taught to control his power. I will take him to be my pupil, to study and learn the arts of magic. He will leave with me tonight.”

“How did you hear about him?” Elimee demanded, stepping forward. “How did you get here so soon?”

The Chaos mage gave her a withering glare, but she refused to back down.

“I have been searching for an apprentice for a long time,” the wizard said, his words slow and overly patient, as if explaining to a child. “I have cast spells of seeking; I have studied the augers and signs. They led me here.”

“They couldn't have led you here in time to save his father?” she asked.

“I cannot change the past,” the mage said with a shrug, “but I can offer him a better future than any of you here.”

“Forgive her, Your Lordship,” Willan said, ushering Elimee to the side. “I think I can safely speak on the boy's behalf when I say he would be honored to serve as an apprentice to the great wizard … ah … the most renowned … the famous mage …?”

The wizard smiled at Willan's predicament, his painted teeth a sickly rainbow of color.

“Rexol,” he said at last. “My name is Rexol.”

Keegan's exhausted body fought against itself as consciousness slowly returned. His thoughts groggy and muddled, he was only aware that he didn't want to wake up. Not yet. Stubbornly, he kept his eyes closed as scattered images flitted through his mind then vanished, bits and pieces from half-remembered dreams.

But they weren't dreams. They were visions. And they came true.

He knew if he concentrated he could piece together most of what had happened. But he felt no desire to make the effort. It was all meaningless except for one thing: His father was dead.

Aware of the fact but refusing to fully acknowledge it, he forced his mind to another problem.

Where am I?

Though his eyes were still closed, he could tell he wasn't in his own bed. The mattress was firmer than what he was used to. The scents and smells lingering in the air were different from his own room's—not better, or worse; just different.

It was hot under the covers. He was clad in both shirt and slacks. The feel of the clothes was familiar against his skin—comfortable and well worn. But they were ripe with the odor of sweat, as if he had been wearing them for many days.

For several minutes he lay completely still, eyes still clenched tight, hoping the darkness would take him again. But now that he was awake, his body refused to let him ignore its basic needs. An urgent pressure mounting on his bladder eventually won out, and he finally opened his eyes.

He was in a large, square chamber. Through the small, solitary window high on the wall at the foot of his bed he could see it was night outside. A single candle flickered on a table in one corner, casting just enough light to make out the rest of the details of the room. The walls were stone, gray and unadorned. There were two small beds—the one he lay in, and another on the far side of the room. In the far corner was a large wardrobe; the only other piece of furniture was a single wooden chair next to the table with the melting candle. Someone had set out a plate of food and a large cup. The only exit was a heavy wooden door, closed tight.

Am I in a prison somewhere? Did they lock me away after what I did?

The room didn't actually look like a prison, but Keegan's mind was still trying to sort things out as he rolled out from under the covers. Fortunately there was a chamber pot beneath his mattress, and he took the opportunity to make use of it.

As soon as he finished relieving himself, his stomach began to grumble. Keegan placed the lid on the chamber pot and pushed it back under the bed with his foot. Then he slowly shuffled his way over to the table and sat down. He took a few bites of the bread and cheese on the plate. The bread was plain, but it wasn't stale or hard—it had to have been put out recently. The cheese was sharp and strong, and he reached for the cup to wash it down. The water was warm, but clear and clean in his throat.

After several more bites the worst of his hunger abated, and he made his way back over to the bed. Instead of crawling under the covers, however, he simply sat on the edge, staring down at his hands clasped in his lap.

When he heard the door open a few minutes later, he glanced up to see a young man of roughly his own age step through.

“You're awake,” the young man said as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over at the half-finished meal on the table then added, “And you're eating. That's good.”

Keegan didn't reply; he had no intention of speaking at all. His curiosity was drowned out by his weariness and the grief of knowing his father was dead. But as the other boy drew closer, he couldn't help but notice the greenish brown tinge of his skin.

“You're a Dweller!” he barked out in surprise.

The young man's nose crinkled in disgust. “I am one of the Danaan,” he said. “
Dweller
is a word we find … distasteful. My name is Vaaler.”

Vaaler waited a few moments, as if expecting Keegan to offer his own name, or perhaps an apology for offending him. Neither was forthcoming. The shock of seeing one of the legendary Tree Folk had startled him from his grim silence, but he had no intention of speaking again.

“I'm sorry about your father,” Vaaler finally said.

Again, Keegan made no response. The Danaan youth shrugged and made his way over to the other bed.

“I'll leave the food there in case you get hungry during the night,” he said as he stripped down to his underclothes and climbed beneath the covers. “The candle will go out on its own.”

Keegan peeled off his filthy shirt and pants and crawled under the covers of the bed again. With his stomach satiated and his bladder empty, exhaustion took him quickly off to sleep.

When he woke next the sun was shining through the small window. The table had been cleared and Vaaler was gone. Keegan once again used the chamber pot; just as he was finished the door opened and Vaaler came in again. He was carrying a tray with breakfast—a plate covered with eggs and bacon, a knife and fork, and another large cup, though this was juice and not water. He set it down on the table, then turned to go. At the door he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

“If you need to empty the chamber pot, or you have other business, I can show you where the lavatory is.”

“Maybe after I eat,” Keegan muttered.

The Danaan raised an eyebrow in surprise at hearing him speak. Instead of leaving, he watched Keegan make his way over to the table.

“I lost my father, too,” he said once Keegan had settled into the chair.

“When?”

“Long ago. Before I was even born. I never knew him.”

“It's not the same,” Keegan said between mouthfuls.

“No, I guess it's not.”

Keegan attacked his food, suddenly ravenous. He stuffed it into his mouth as fast as he could, washing it down with great gulps of from the cup. The juice was from some type of sour fruit—tangy and bitter, but still tasty. When he was finished, he finally felt up to asking some questions.

“Where are we?” he said, starting with the most obvious. “Is this a prison?”

“Not the way you mean,” Vaaler answered, then shook his head. “This is Rexol's estate.”

“Rexol?”

“A great wizard. I'm his apprentice. You are, too, now.”

“What if I don't want to be his apprentice?” Keegan asked.

“Would you rather have the Order find you?”

Keegan shook his head, his mind still trying to process everything. Despite his grief over his father's loss, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement at what he'd just been told.

“What's it like?” Keegan asked. “Being a wizard's apprentice?”

Vaaler shrugged. “I make the meals. Tend the grounds. Clean the manse. Rexol's strict, but he's not cruel.”

“Is that it? Doesn't he teach you how to use magic?”

“Most of the time he's up in his study, doing research. I might not see him for days. And even when I do, he rarely has time to teach me anything himself. Usually he just gives me something to read. Most of what I've learned has come from the books in his library.”

“Are you sure he's actually a wizard?”

“Magic isn't as interesting as you think,” Vaaler warned him. “It's not like the stories and legends. Real wizards don't run around shooting fire from their eyes and calling lightning down from the sky.

“Chaos is dangerous. You have to be careful before you call on it. It takes weeks—maybe even months—just to learn how to cast a proper spell.

“First, you have to study the rituals and incantations that summon and control the Chaos. You need to say the right words and draw the precise symbols on your flesh to protect yourself. You have to practice them over and over again—hundreds of times—until you have them completely memorized.

“Get one little thing wrong and the Chaos will break free and destroy you. You can't make any mistakes. You have to be flawless. Perfect.

“And even then,” Vaaler added, his voice dropping as if he was speaking more to himself than Keegan, “nothing happens.”

A long, awkward silence followed. Eager to break it, Keegan finally asked, “How many other apprentices are there?”

“Just me,” Vaaler replied. “I've been studying under Rexol for six years, and until now I was the only other person on his estate.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It is,” the young Danaan admitted. “It is.”

Gazing into a small mirror mounted on the wall of his study, Rexol carefully traced the outline of the protective glyphs onto the skin of his face. The hot tip of the metal stylus burned his flesh as it left an indelible trail of ink across his cheeks and around his eyes, but the fresh glow of the witchroot coursing through his system numbed him to the pain.

He was eager to begin training his new apprentice—he'd felt his power; he could already sense the Chaos that burned within his core. But he understood the need to move slowly. The boy had lost his father; pushing him now might cause him to resent his training. Better to wait until he had come to terms with his father's death.

In another day, maybe two, he would go see his newest charge. Until then, he'd continue his studies of the ancient Danaan texts, searching for more information about the Talismans that had given the Slayer the power of the Gods.

He'd left Keegan under Vaaler's care. The two were the same age, and the Danaan prince was far more empathetic and less intimidating than Rexol. He would help ease Keegan into accepting his new life.

Initially, Rexol knew, the boy would cling to the remnants of his past; they were a link to his father. In time, however, the names and faces of the people from his village would fade. Ultimately, they would be swept aside by the all-consuming hunger that would come when Keegan learned to tap into his latent talent. As he became more engrossed in the arts of sorcery and magic, such plain, common folk would cease to have any meaning or significance to him. He'd barely remember them at all, just as Rexol couldn't even be bothered to recall the name of the town where he had found the boy.

Of course, the villagers had already forgotten about their unexpected visitor by now. To keep the Order from seeking Keegan out, Rexol had invoked a powerful incantation to alter their memories when he'd spirited Keegan away. As far as the simple townsfolk were concerned, the Chaos mage had never been there. In their minds, Keegan had perished along with his father in the brutal Raider attack.

Applying the finishing touches to his tattoos, Rexol turned his attention to the manuscript lying open on his desk—a collection of children's stories presented to one of Lassander the Second's daughters. A book of myths and fables. But myths were often echoes of history; there was truth if you knew what to look for.

He'd found several mentions of the Talismans in the leather-bound book's illustrated pages already. Earlier today, for the first time, he'd stumbled across an actual descriptions of what the Talismans were … and what they could do.

The Gods bestowed upon the Slayer three Talismans, each forged in the Sea of Fire. The Crown gave him wisdom; by its power he could see across the entirety of the mortal world, peering even into hearts and minds, that he could keep vigil against the Chaos Spawn. The Sword gave him strength; by its power he could defeat any foe, that he might lead the mortal armies against the Chaos Spawn. The Ring gave him magic; by its power he could call upon the raw essence of Chaos, that he might banish the Chaos Spawn from the mortal world.

Rexol's mind reeled with the implications. A Crown that granted omniscience. A Sword that made you invincible. And, most interesting of all, the Ring. Summoning and channeling Chaos was one of the most difficult aspects of any spell. A ring that could draw Chaos directly from the Sea of Fire itself had the potential to grant a wizard almost infinite power … providing he knew how to control it.

The pieces are coming together,
Rexol thought as he began the soft chant that would once again temporarily transform the strange symbols on the book's pages into words he could understand. The Crown, the Sword, and the Ring—gifts from the so-called Gods. Talismans imbued with the power of Old Magic. Ancient relics, lost for centuries, just waiting to be found by someone strong enough to claim them.

Rexol understood the ways of Chaos. He knew that discovering this passage now, in the wake of finding his new apprentice, was more than mere coincidence.

The wheels have been set in motion,
he thought as the arcane words fell from his lips.
Chaos is gathering.