Children of Fire (20 page)

Strange. The Enforcers had gone over with the intention of starting a fight, Scythe was sure of that. Somehow the barbarian had talked them out of it. Or maybe up close they realized just how big he really was and thought better of starting something they might not be able to finish. In any case, Scythe was even more intrigued. And a little disappointed. She needed to get closer to this strange visitor if she wanted to figure him out.

Just then Scythe noticed a young man moving stealthily through the crowd toward the barbarian. She flashed a quick hand signal:
Back off. He's mine.
The young man, little more than a boy really, ignored her. Another quick gesture from Scythe.
I claimed him. He's my mark.
No reaction. Maybe the boy was too intent on his potential victim to notice her slight gestures through the crowd. Or maybe he just didn't know the local sign language of the street.

She didn't recognize him; he wasn't one of the regular operators who worked the square. Now that she was closer she could see he had the broad nose and wide, round eyes of the Mosama Islands, though he was dressed so as to better blend in with the Southlanders in the crowd. A common enough story: A young man signs on with a ship's crew and discovers life at sea can be unbearable. Rather than endure the tyranny of his captain, he jumps ship at Callastan but finds the city a cruel and hard place for foreigners with no money. Hungry and desperate and scared, he turns to petty thievery to survive.

New operators were always welcome to ply their trade so long as they followed the rules and respected the claims of others. For the good of her profession, Scythe felt it was her duty to teach the young man a lesson about Callastan's underworld etiquette he wouldn't soon forget. With casual indifference Scythe reached down inside the top of her boot and slid the razor-sharp blade strapped to her calf free from its sheath. She cupped the small knife in her left palm to keep it hidden from view.

The man was an amateur, she decided as she slowly approached—a onetime cabin boy who knew nothing about the trade. The mere fact he had targeted the barbarian was a sign of his inexperience.
Never steal from the poor
was a lesson most thieves learned rather quickly. And his technique was an embarrassment: clumsy, awkward, and impatient. He was already standing nervously behind the barbarian, his guilt as obvious as the red bandanna wrapped around his neck. It was a wonder the big man hadn't already noticed him and his reckless rush through the crowd to reach his current position.

Scythe realized he wasn't working alone. Scattered among the nearby crowd were three other Islanders wearing red bandannas identical to that of the young pickpocket. They affected a casual stance, but she could tell by the way each man had a hand wrapped around the hilt of his cutlass that they were taking an unnatural interest in the unfolding crime. Probably shipmates who had defected with the cabin boy, the muscle he'd need to protect his ill-gotten gains and stake out his turf. A regular crime ring in the making.

Scythe continued her casual approach through the crowd, keeping the overeager young thief always in her sights. His armed companions changed things somewhat. It would be harder to intimidate a group of four than a single man. She might have to kill the boy for them to really take her point.

She was still a fair distance away when the young man reached forward, blindly slipping his hand beneath the savage's leather apron in the hope he would stumble onto a hidden purse or pouch beneath. The barbarian spun around, moving far quicker than Scythe would have thought possible for a man of his size. The pickpocket was caught completely off guard as one huge paw seized his not-so-innocently placed hand. The young man screamed in surprise then pain as his fingers were crushed in the barbarian's monstrously strong grip, and the brawl Scythe had earlier expected finally broke out.

The three Islanders in the red bandannas whipped out their cutlasses and leapt to the aid of their partner. The one closest to the giant brought his blade around in a tight slashing arc, carving a deep gash in the big man's left forearm and causing him to break his grip on the mangled digits of the shrieking pickpocket. He leapt back an instant after delivering the blow, but he couldn't quite get beyond his foe's unnaturally long reach.

The barbarian's fist smashed into the side of his head and he crumpled to the street, where Scythe lost sight of him through the suddenly panicked crowd. Pandemonium had erupted in the square. Half the people were rushing toward her, fleeing the sudden violence. The other half surged forward, eager to get a better view of the fight—or to join in. As she squeezed her way among the frantic bodies, Scythe noticed several of the club-wielding Enforcers pushing through the mob toward the battle, eager to restore order with a flurry of hard blows delivered to anyone careless enough to get within range.

Scythe forced her way to the edge of the tight circle that had formed around the combatants and instantly appraised the situation. Within the ring of shouting, screaming spectators the fallen Islander lay on the street, the red blood leaking from his ears and nose nearly the same color as the cloth around his neck. From the unnatural angle of his jaw Scythe knew it was broken. Beside him the failed pickpocket knelt with his mauled hand clutched against his stomach, rocking back and forth. High-pitched moans and whimpers escaped his lips, barely audible above the excited shouts and cries of the surrounding crowd.

The other two pirates were engaging the barbarian more cautiously than their unconscious friend. They feinted and dodged, making halfhearted stabs and aborted thrusts toward the crouching giant that drew nothing but air. Neither man was willing to come quite close enough to feel the wrath of those meaty fists, much to the dismay of the bloodthirsty onlookers.

Without warning another pirate launched himself from the crowd and onto the barbarian's broad shoulders. He clung there like a child getting a piggyback, the savage flailing his great arms around in a desperate effort to dislodge this newest foe from his perch. Unlike the other pirates this one wore no bandanna. Simply a man coming to the aid of his fellow Islanders, Scythe decided as she dropped unnoticed to the street beside the whimpering pickpocket.

“Please,” the young man mouthed at her, tears of agony streaming from his eyes as he caressed his mangled hand.

With a single fluid motion Scythe sliced the razor hidden in her left palm up across his right cheek, then down along his left, leaving two thin but deep cuts that began to well up with blood an instant later. She had spared him his eyes; maybe she was going soft.

Those eyes now looked at her with horror and shock. She didn't say a word, but delivered a sharp strike to his throat with the edge of her unarmed hand. If the boy was smart he would understand the lesson he had just been given. If not, the next time he violated the unwritten code of Callastan's operators someone would probably kill him.

It would be several minutes before the gasping pickpocket would be able to get enough air to even think about getting up, so Scythe turned her attention back to the battle.

The barbarian's arms and legs were slick with the gore oozing from a dozen cruel but superficial gashes on his meaty limbs. The Islanders must have seized the opportunity to bring their cutlasses to bear while the savage had struggled with the Islander on his back. But now they had retreated to a safe distance, their faces a mix of terror and anticipation at what would happen next.

Somehow the big man had gotten ahold of the attacker on his back. The unfortunate Islander squirmed and struggled in the unbreakable grip, his feet kicking and dangling a full foot off the ground. The crowd screamed for blood and Scythe thought the savage would surely give it to them. She half expected the barbarian to rip the limbs from the Islander's sockets one by one and hurl them into the crowd. At the very least she though he would break the man's neck.

Instead the Easterner slammed his forehead into the man's face, breaking his nose in an explosion of blood that matched the barbarian's tangled mane and bushy red beard. The Islander convulsed once then went limp. The barbarian let the unmoving form slip from his grasp onto the ground then carefully stepped over his defeated, but still very much alive, opponent to face the two now reluctant Islanders still standing against him.

The circle of hollering spectators suddenly scattered as the first Enforcer arrived, his club swinging indiscriminately at everyone around him. A moment later a second soldier arrived to aid in the pummeling. Several careless bystanders went down before one of the pirates was dropped with a sharp blow to the base of his skull. The other was tripped up as he tried to escape into the fleeing crowd, and one of the Enforcers was on him before he could scramble to his feet. A savage smash across the elbow disarmed him, and he howled at the agony of his shattered bone as he rolled around helpless on the ground.

Two more soldiers arrived and the four men charged the barbarian simultaneously, trying to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. For a second they buried him under their surge, dragging him to the ground beneath their combined weight. But they couldn't keep him down. In the scrum the fists and kicks of the barbarian inflicted more damage than their pounding clubs and a few seconds later he was up again—though two of his attackers couldn't achieve the same feat.

Of the two soldiers still standing, one managed to scuttle backward to safety. The other was seized by the enormous warrior and hurled through the air like ballast launched from a catapult. He hit the ground with a dull thud and didn't even try to rise.

The barbarian scooped up the club from one of the fallen combatants and glared over the crumpled and writhing bodies of his many victims at the lone soldier still standing. In his massive hand the Enforcer's weapon looked like a child's toy. The smaller man wisely turned to run only to find himself face-to-face with Scythe—though in truth she just came up to his chin.

She drove her knee hard into his groin. Scythe had never been one to miss an opportunity to extract some measure of revenge on the Callastan police for the many beatings they had given her friends and fellow operators over the years.

The Enforcer's eyes bulged and his club clattered onto the street as his hands involuntarily clutched at his mashed testicles. Ever so slowly he sank to his knees. Over her opponent's shoulder Scythe saw the barbarian's blood-smeared face break into a wide grin.

There was something infectious in his grin, and despite herself Scythe gave him a coy smile in return. Then she delivered a spinning back round kick to the side of the Enforcer's head. The savage laughed as the soldier went down, the imprint of Scythe's heel barely visible in the soft flesh of his temple. The barbarian's deep booming chuckle echoed down the suddenly all but deserted street.

The mob that had gathered to watch the fight had thinned considerably. People always vanished when the Enforcers started to arrive—where there was one there were soon many, many more. Even now Scythe could see a half a dozen of the soldiers gathering at the far end of the street, debating if they should move in to apprehend the barbarian or wait for more reinforcements to arrive.

She suspected they would take their time. There was nowhere in Callastan the barbarian could go that they wouldn't find him. No inn, no tavern, no shop, no street, no alley where a seven-foot-tall mountain of peeling, sunburned, foreign flesh clad in a brown leather apron could hide.

“Come with me,” she said, not even sure if the Easterner could understand her.

“Where?” he asked, his accent so thick she could barely make out the single word.

She glanced back at the Enforcers. Instead of six she now counted eight. Eight men huddled a block away, still waiting for a little more backup.

“Just come with me,” she ordered.

He shrugged amicably, dropped the now unnecessary club to the ground, and followed Scythe around the nearest corner and into a narrow alley. She paused to consider whether his enormous girth would make escape impossible. It would be a tight fit, she decided, but doable.

“In there,” she said, pointing at a sewer hole built into the stones beneath their feet.

He bent down and pulled the heavy iron grate covering the dark passage aside with ridiculous ease, then recoiled at the stench wafting up from below. He gave her a skeptical glance, but she met his unspoken inquiry with a firm nod. It wasn't likely the Enforcers would follow them into the reeking tunnels beneath the city; their wages were good, but not that good.

“In,” she said again, as if speaking to a small child.

The savage gave her another of his wide grins, sucked in his massive gut, and lowered himself into the sewers of Callastan. Scythe took a last look to see if anyone had followed them into the alley. Once sure the coast was clear, she disappeared into the sewers after him.

“
Tasre feim yinl maouk.
”

The words of the Old Tongue still felt strange in Keegan's mouth. Each one fell from his lips with an awkward thud.

“You're trying too hard,” Vaaler offered. “Thinking about it too much.”

The Danaan prince was lying on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head. Keegan was sitting at the small table in their shared room, head bowed over the parchment containing the words of the spell he was trying to memorize for tomorrow's trial.

Keegan nodded, took a deep breath, and started over.

“
Tasre feim yinl maouk
.”

“Try to let the words flow,” Vaaler said, interrupting him again. “Don't think of them each individually. There's a natural cadence to the spell. Like this:
Tasre feim yinl maouk
.”

As he spoke, the words rolled into one another, blending in a smooth, unbroken rhythm.

Easy for you,
Keegan thought.
You've been practicing for years.

He knew better than to say what he was thinking out loud. In the two years since he'd come under Rexol's charge, Vaaler had done everything he could to help Keegan adjust to life as a wizard's apprentice. He considered the young man a friend—maybe his only real friend—and he didn't want to hurt him with the truth.

Despite Vaaler's long tenure under Rexol, the Danaan had never successfully summoned Chaos. He understood the theories of magic and sorcery; he had memorized the incantations for several dozen spells. Yet for all his study and practice, he would never become a wizard—he lacked the essential spark of power burning inside him.

Keegan had sensed its absence soon after he began his own studies. When he had asked Rexol about it, his master had carefully avoided giving him any kind of real answer.
The incantations and charms help us focus. They are tools to channel and control the Chaos. They augment our abilities, but the source of our power comes from within.

He suspected that, on some level, Vaaler knew his training was futile. But that hadn't stopped him from helping Keegan with his own studies.

“The witchroot will help tomorrow,” Vaaler assured him. “It makes it easier to let go. You'll stop trying to control things, and you just let them happen.”

He knew Vaaler was right. Under Rexol's supervision, Keegan had been taking regular doses of the drug to build up his tolerance to its effects for several months. Wrapped in the witchroot's euphoric glow, it was almost impossible to feel hesitant or nervous.

But here and now, on the night before his first attempt at summoning Chaos, he was plagued by doubts.

“What if something goes wrong?” he wondered aloud, turning in his chair to face his friend. “What if I make a mistake?”

“There's an old Danaan saying,” Vaaler replied. “
A student's failure reflects on the teacher.
If you're not ready for this, its Rexol's fault for pushing you too fast.”

“I don't think he'd see it that way.”

“Probably not,” Vaaler admitted, sitting up on the edge of his bed. “But its not like he's going to send you away if you forget the words to your first spell and nothing happens.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Keegan said after a moment's hesitation. “What if I summon the Chaos and I lose control?”

Vaaler laughed. “That's what you're afraid of it? Honestly, that's the last thing I'd be worried about.”

But I'm not like you.

Vaaler didn't know about Keegan's Gift. He hadn't told him about his prophetic dreams, or about how he'd unleashed Chaos to kill the raider who murdered his father. Vaaler studied the lessons because he wanted to prove himself to his mother and his people. But Keegan's motivation was different.

He'd felt the raw power of Chaos surging through his body. He'd killed another man. He'd almost killed himself. He understood magic in a way Vaaler never would. Its devastating potential terrified him, but it also exhilarated him. If he didn't learn to control his power, he was convinced it would kill him. But if he was able to master it—to bend the Chaos to his will—he would never have to be afraid of anyone or anything again.

“I wish I could be there tomorrow,” Vaaler said. “For moral support. But I guess Rexol doesn't want you to have any distractions.”

Or maybe he's afraid of what might happen to you if something goes wrong.

“I should practice some more,” Keegan said, turning his attention back to the words on the page.

“Are you ready?” Rexol asked.

The words seemed far away to Keegan, muffled as if he were hearing them from underwater. The small doses of witchroot he'd been taking over the past months hadn't prepared him for the massive dose Rexol had given him in preparation for the trial.

They had gathered in a small clearing in the gardens at the back of the manse's grounds. Keegan was standing inside a small circle of white stones, each painted with arcane glyphs. Rexol stood outside the circle, a dozen feet away and slightly off to the side. Across the clearing was a stone pedestal; like the stone at his feet it was painted with powerful runes of warding. Atop the pedestal was a small pile of twigs.

“Are you ready?” Rexol repeated, slamming the butt of his gorgon's-head staff sharply down on the grass at his feet. It gave off a sharp crack, drawing his apprentice's attention.

Keegan looked over at his master and nodded.

“Remember your lessons. There is power in the charm, but it is only a conduit. It will channel and augment your spell, but it is you who must control the Chaos that is summoned. Look to your own power … the charm is nothing without it.”

The apprentice clutched the charm tightly in his fist. It was a small, jagged crystal: a frozen giant's tear. The rough edges bit into the skin of his palm, the pain helping him focus.

“Recite the words of the spell exactly as you have learned them. The incantation will shape and bind the Chaos. Without it the magic will fight against you; you will exhaust yourself battling to contain it.

“Whatever happens, do not step out of the rune circle,” Rexol sternly reminded him. “The inscriptions on the stones at your feet will keep you safe if something goes wrong. Step beyond the wards and the fires of Chaos will devour you.”

This time Keegan didn't nod, but only shuddered. A cold fear clutched at his stomach. Memories of the night his father died leapt unbidden to his mind, images floating in the fog of the witchroot: fire, the Raiders, his father's broken body, a storm of power and destruction …

“Concentrate!” Rexol snapped. “Focus! Put all other thoughts aside. Reach out with your mind and let it touch the Burning Sea. Draw its power to you.”

Keegan did as he was told, and the Chaos began to gather.

Rexol felt the air tremble as his apprentice tapped into the source of all magic. His staff thrummed in his grasp, the glyphs carved into the shaft responding to the gathering Chaos. Keegan was strong. Far stronger than any of his previous apprentices had been, except maybe the girl Cassandra. He had sensed the young man's power from the first day he had brought him here, numb with the horror of his father's death and reeling from the shock of the Chaos he had unleashed to avenge him. Even in that ravaged, grief-stricken mind he had felt the potential and realized he would have to be careful with this one. Keegan was a true wizard, with power that might one day rival Rexol's own … if he dared to use it again.

The boy had witnessed his father's death; he had felt the awesome fury of Chaos unbound surging through him. He knew firsthand the horrors it could bring. From the very start, Rexol had known he would have to bring him along slowly. Even in the best of circumstances, the transition from mortal to mage was not an easy one.

Fortunately Vaaler had been there to make the transition easier. He had helped Keegan in ways a master never could. Rexol needed to remain aloof; he needed to maintain an aura of mystery, authority, and even fear to properly instruct the young wizard. He could offer no comfort to his charge. Vaaler, however, was an equal and a peer: two apprentices housed together in the otherwise empty servants' quarters of the manse.

The young men had much in common. Neither had any siblings; both had a parent they had never known. Both had lived lonely, isolated childhoods: Keegan because of his father's frequent moves, Vaaler because of the burden of his impending ascension to the throne. And both found themselves in the service of a cold and distant master, with little outside contact. It was inevitable a bond would form between them.

The Chaos was building quickly. Within the rune circle, his apprentice was surrounded by swirling blue flames, though the glyphs kept him safe from harm. The roaring power echoed in Rexol's mind, and beneath the rumble he heard Keegan begin to recite the arcane words of the spell that would tame the wild power of magic.

He spoke with a clear confidence Rexol recognized; he had heard it before in Vaaler's recitations. Not surprising, given that the Danaan had been helping Keegan with his lessons. Though he didn't possess a single drop of Chaos in his blood, Vaaler was an excellent student of the mage's art. He easily grasped the complex theories behind magic and sorcery. He compulsively studied the intricate rituals of summoning and controlling Chaos, perfectly memorizing spells he would never be able to cast.

Obviously, he had passed his own knowledge on to Keegan. Rexol had suspected as much and allowed it, up till now. At least the prince's knowledge would not be wasted. For while Vaaler had neither the Gift nor the Sight, Keegan was strong in both. Like Cassandra had been, long ago. She had been taken from him, lost to the Order before he could fully explore her power and potential. This time Rexol had no intention of letting anything come between him and his pupil.

Which was why he had would have to send Vaaler away soon. The prince was a born leader, intelligent and charismatic. He would make a fine king, should the Danaan ever chose to accept his rule. But he was no wizard; he had no place in Keegan's future training or life.

Over the past two years his apprentices had become like brothers; each would give anything to help the other. But an apprentice's only allegiance should belong to his master. It was time to make Keegan understand this.

The world had taken on a haze, as if seen through a cloud of cerulean smoke.

Keegan recoiled as the blue flames licked at his skin: an instinctive reaction only, for the fire didn't burn. But even though he flinched, he continued the mystic chant flawlessly, the strange words tumbling effortlessly from his lips.

The talisman burned hot in his hand, but he dared not let it go. He could feel the Chaos spiraling around him,
through
him. It seeped down into his pores; his blood began to tingle, then boil.

But still he felt no pain. The Chaos was his to control, bound by the strength of his will and the power of his words. Slowly, he raised his head, still reciting the arcane litany. His eyes pierced the blue haze and focused on the small stone pedestal across the courtyard. He could just make out the twigs and tinder piled on its surface; they blended in with the runes inscribed across its surface.

Keegan lifted his hand. The Chaos swept around his arm, climbing up and shooting out from his upraised palm. It arced across the courtyard in a single bolt of heat, striking the kindling just as he uttered the last words of his spell. For a brief moment he saw the wood burst into flame and felt the heady rush of accomplishment. And then his world exploded in agony.

Rexol smiled to himself as the Chaos leapt from Keegan's hand across the courtyard to its target, knowing what the outcome would be. But his smile vanished when the flames engulfed the rune-covered pedestal. The dry sticks vanished into ash; the stone cracked from the intense heat, then began to sag and droop as the fire turned the slab into molten rock.

The glyphs of warding echoed the power of Keegan's spell, shooting a blast of fire back onto the young wizard, enveloping him in the searing blue flames. He screamed and dropped to the ground, tumbling out of the rune circle … which should have been impossible.

Rexol thrust his staff to the heavens, shouting out a desperate counter-spell of his own. The fire leapt up in response, twin columns ascending from Keegan's crumpled body and the bubbling pool that had once been a stone pedestal. The surging flames crashed together above the gorgon's skull, then dove down into Rexol himself, instantly snuffing out the fire wrapped around his apprentice's unconscious form.

The wizard staggered back as the Chaos slammed into him. He felt it raging inside, tearing him apart. Never had he felt such pain; never had he felt such power! Only decades of training allowed him to focus his will in the face of such blissful agony. He spat out harsh words to batter the flames, yanking them out of his body and hurling them into his staff. The eyes of the gorgon's skull blazed with unholy blue light; the staff trembled and shook, the Chaos trapped within threatening to burst it into splinters and dust.

Spinning the staff above his head, he shrieked out a spell to unleash the Chaos upon the world. It poured forth like a great wind, rushing up to disappear high above the clouds. For an instant all was still; then the sky exploded in a storm of thunder, lightning, and rain. Within seconds Rexol was soaked to the bone, but he ignored the downpour as he rushed over to kneel beside Keegan's huddled form.

He was unconscious, but not seriously injured. Rexol cursed himself as he picked his apprentice up and carried him back inside the manse, showing far more strength than anyone would have expected from his lean frame. Even after a year of studying Keegan, of subtly pushing and testing the limits of his power, he had underestimated him. The Chaos had reflected back from the pedestal as he had intended, but instead of a brief and painful flash to scare his apprentice, it had become an inferno.