Children of Fire (45 page)

Scythe seemed at a loss for words and turned to Norr for support. The barbarian only shrugged his massive shoulders, uncertain what he could say. It was actually Keegan who spoke next.

“No. I won't abandon you. None of you. You deserve better than this.”

“What we deserve is not—”

The young wizard cut him off. “If I am to save the world, then I must first be able to save those who stand with me.”

He turned to Vaaler and held out his hand. “The Ring. Hurry.”

The Danaan hesitated only briefly before surrendering the Talisman.

Keegan took it with a trembling hand. He climbed awkwardly down from his horse, the ring clenched tightly in his right fist and Rexol's staff in his left, and handed the reins to Jerrod.

“Take the horses and move to the edges of the clearing. I don't want you to be too close in case … well, just in case.”

There was no time to argue. The sound of the horns continued to draw closer. The others did as he instructed without speaking. He waited until they had moved as far from him as they could go without completely vanishing into the trees. He hoped that would be a safe enough distance.

Knowing it was time to claim his destiny, Keegan placed the Ring on his finger.

Power flooded through the young wizard. Power beyond anything he had ever known. Power unlike anything he had ever imagined. The Ring had torn open a fissure in the mortal world and Keegan had become a mere conduit channeling the raw energy of Chaos. He gasped and dropped to his knees, physically unable to stand as the magic poured through him, Rexol's staff slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground beside him.

His mind was lost amid the Chaos storm. Everything he had done before was but a taste of what he had unleashed, a sprinkling of a few drops compared with the torrent drowning him now. His mind was overwhelmed by the fury of the storm, his will battered and tossed aside by the Talisman's infinite power. Without boundaries or limits, the Chaos exploded out from him into the mortal world.

It flew up to the sky, gathering into a dark and ominous cloud. A sudden wind sprang up and howled around him, a tornado whipping his hair and clothes, tearing at him as if it would flay his very flesh from his bones. It swept up the fallen leaves and twigs in the clearing, surrounding him with a swirling green and brown wall. Arcs of lightning shot down from the thunderclouds, slamming into the ground and trees around him, shattering the branches and splitting the trunks.

His companions were driven back farther from the clearing by the tornado enveloping him. They retreated into the trees, seeking shelter from the unnatural lightning and trying to stay beyond the range of the magical winds.

The power continued to well up inside him, pouring into him from the Chaos Sea far faster than it could escape into the mortal world. He felt as if he were going to burst, the pressure inside him mounting until his skin stretched and began to crack, bleeding out tiny rivulets of molten blue liquid. He threw his head back and screamed in agony.

In response to his cry Jerrod leapt from the forest and rushed toward him, only to be blown back by the ferocious winds within the clearing. The monk was lifted from his feet by the wild currents and hurled against a nearby tree hard enough to crack his ribs.

He grunted in pain, struggled to his feet, and rushed forward again. This time the storm flung him twenty feet through the air to land face-first with a dull thud outside the range of its localized fury. Jerrod rolled onto his side, tried valiantly to rise, then fell back down and lay still.

Keegan could feel the Chaos rushing out from the Ring and through him like a great river that had jumped its banks, wild and untamed, a force of pure destruction. A bolt of lightning struck him, engulfing him in its blue fire. He should have been consumed in that single instant, devoured as Rexol had been when he dared to use the Crown. Only he wasn't.

The pain was excruciating, the heat from the incandescent flames unbearable. His skin was scorched and blistered and burned. But somehow he was still alive. Somehow, he had survived. Clinging to the knowledge that this alone proved he was stronger than his master had ever been, Keegan gathered his will and tried to impose it on the Chaos.

He began to rein it in, building a dam deep inside himself to stem the wild flow, caging the infinite power within the structure of the Ring itself. The magic rushing through him became a mere trickle. The Chaos began to well up within the Talisman instead of him, a great pool he could draw upon as he needed it: a part of him, but separate.

He allowed the reservoir of Chaos that had built up within his own body to seep out into the forest, and the heat and pressure inside him began to subside. With great effort, Keegan rose to his feet.

The storm still raged in the clearing; he couldn't see for all the debris swirling around him. He raised his left hand to the sky and slowly brought his arm down to his side, his fingers closing into a tight fist as he did so. In response to his command the winds died and the lightning stopped, though dark clouds still broiled overhead.

The Chaos was his now: his to control, his to command. The Ring offered him a limitless supply of energy, and all he had to do was draw it out and bend it to his will. He began the slow chant of a dark spell. The clouds above him rumbled and churned, then began to dissipate, spreading out in a fine, black mist that settled slowly down upon the trees.

Keegan continued his chant, closing his eyes so he could see the effects of the Chaos. With his second sight the mage located a single patrol moving swiftly toward the clearing, clambering through the branches high above the forest floor. He set the magic upon them.

The dark mist had become a shadowy fog. In response to his will, it crawled through the forest toward the advancing patrol, wrapping itself around the trunks and branches of the trees, seeping beneath the bark and into the leaves, slithering down into the roots. The trees began to change.

For a brief instant he felt the old enchantments of the forest fighting against him. Powerful wards binding the woods to the Danaan resisted his spell, but he easily brushed them aside and continued to work his spell of transformation.

The patrol leader stopped; she sensed that something was wrong, though she wasn't sure what it was. She crouched down on the branch she had been standing on and reached back to draw her bow. Beneath her feet the branch began to sway. No, not sway:
writhe.

She glanced down and to her horror saw that the leaves around her feet were squirming like great green maggots. A thin branch slithered out and wrapped itself around her ankle. A swarm of leaves fluttered down to cover her face, leaving a sticky, glistening trail as they crawled across her skin.

She tried to shout out a warning, but another limb lashed out and encircled her neck, drawing it so tight her eyes bulged and her mouth gaped. She struggled to draw breath, but the leaves filled her mouth and pushed down her throat, choking the life out of her.

Not that her warning would have made any difference. Behind her the forest had already come alive and swallowed every member of her patrol.

The shadow fog spread south rapidly, working the hideous metamorphosis on every tree it touched. In his mind's eye Keegan watched with morbid fascination the futile struggles of his enemies as they encountered this unthinkable foe.

The scene was repeated over and over, the Danaan sensing or seeing the fog but not realizing what was wrong until the attack began. Then they slashed wildly at the branches snaking out toward them, hacking the wood in desperation. But the branches they chopped through still slithered forward as if they were alive. And as they looked on in numb horror, vines dropped from the foliage above to entangle their limbs and choke the life from them.

Others panicked and fired their bows into the swarms of leaves falling down to envelop them, to no avail. They vanished beneath a blanket of squirming, wriggling vegetation, their muffled screams quickly smothered.

A few managed to sound their horns before they died, but this was a different note. Fall back. Retreat. The line of the patrols had broken. Those still alive were now in a race for their lives, fleeing before the horrors of the shadow fog, moving away from Keegan and his friends. Satisfied, the mage turned his focus to the north, directing the fog toward the soldiers that had pursued them from the city.

Warned by the horns of the patrols, the city soldiers had already begun their retreat to the relative safety of the city. A few brave wizards stayed behind, combining their power in an effort to halt the spread of the deadly fog. But their spells were useless against Keegan's magic, and they fell screaming as the forest consumed them, unable to slow the relentless advance.

Most of the soldiers were going to make it back to the capital, however, before the spell ever reached them. Realizing this, Keegan dispelled the fog with a simple wave of his hand, breaking the enchantment that had given life and malice to the trees, and allowing them to revert to their natural form.

He was in complete command of the Chaos now. He felt strong, invincible. An aura of blue light shimmered and crackled around him. He had routed his enemies with his magic and he still felt an untapped ocean of power pulsing within the Ring, his for the taking. His ears roared with the sound of victory, his heart pounding with the euphoria of conquest. The battle was over, but he was ready to continue the fight.

The wizard crossed his arms above his head, and the aura around him flared in response. He gathered the Chaos into a ball of light hovering above him then released it with a single word. Keegan's body began to grow.

He shrieked as his bones cracked and reknitted a hundred times in the space of a few seconds, growing longer and thicker. His muscles ripped and tore, then re-formed, then ripped and tore again. Three times his outer layer of skin split and peeled away as he shed the useless husk of flesh for a new one.

Moments later the transformation was complete. Keegan stood twenty feet tall, a giant towering above the trees surrounding the clearing. Oblivious to the fate of his companions, the wizard set off toward the Danaan capital with a purposeful stride, smashing tree and limb as he went and leaving a path of destruction in his wake.

Those who had escaped the forest were safe, for now. But they could not escape him. He would level the Danaan city completely. And none could stand against him.

Sleep. The immortal sleep of seven centuries beyond death. The cold sleep of rocks and stones buried in the earth, a spell of such power it cannot be broken. Power. The power of Chaos, the magic of the Gods. The sleeping mountain beneath the earth stirs.

Far to the north of the Danaan capital, in the depths of the forests never seen by human or Danaan since the first Cataclysm, the ground shuddered. Screaming birds took flight, the sound of their beating wings filling the crisp night. Stags and deer and hares crouched trembling low to the ground, paralyzed with fear so great it overwhelmed their instinct to flee.

Slowly, it wakes. And remembers. The wars. Wars against the Gods, led by the one once called Daemron, champion of the Immortals, defender of the mortal world and slayer of the Chaos Spawn. But then the Slayer joins their side and leads them against the Gods to claim the power that is rightfully theirs.

Far below the surface the beast clawed at the soil of the grave from which it was never supposed to rise. Its horned, scaled head burrowed up through the dirt atop its serpentine neck. Powerful foreclaws carved deep furrows through strata of rock and stone; massive back legs kicked as it swam up from the ocean of earth and mud. Its long, thick tail twisted and turned, propelling it ever upward to an escape it was never supposed to know.

It stirs and it remembers the wars. It remembers bitter defeat. It remembers the invincible power of the Immortals. It remembers eons spent frozen beneath the earth, chained by a power too great to resist. Now the power calls it to awaken, and the creature must obey.

The ground erupted in a shower of dirt and stones and uprooted trees as the dragon burst forth. It spread its great leather wings and took to the sky, screaming its rage and fury at centuries of magical captivity. It swooped and dove and turned, stretching and flexing muscles and limbs that had lain still for seven hundred years. And then it climbed. Higher and higher it soared, clouds of sediment trailing behind in a great plume as the residue of centuries was washed away from its glittering green scales by the rapid ascent.

At the apex of its climb, the dragon twisted its sinewy neck to regard the mortal world far below with black reptilian eyes. It dove down to the earth and spread its massive jaws to unleash a blast of fire that ignited the trees in a blaze of blue flame. The inferno spread far faster than the terrified animals below could flee, racing through the forest in every direction, incinerating all in its path.

The dragon flapped its fifty-foot wings and climbed once more, high above the smoke and the sweet stench of the charred flesh from the animals caught in the fire. Here the air was pure and clean. The scent of power reached its scaly nostrils, the scent of Chaos magic. The beast wheeled in the air, turning to the south, drawn by the power of an ancient Talisman.

From the safety of the trees beyond the clearing Scythe, Norr and Vaaler watched Keegan's startling metamorphosis.

“What's he doing?” Vaaler asked when the transformation was complete and the now giant mage had turned to the north and strode off through the trees.

Neither of the others answered him.

“Keegan!” he called out, taking a stride toward the clearing. “Keegan, wait!”

Norr dropped a heavy hand on the Danaan's shoulder, holding him back. “No, don't go after him. It's too dangerous.”

Vaaler turned and looked up at Norr's towering form.

“But the horns have sounded a retreat. It's over. We won. Someone has to tell him.”

“I doubt he'd even hear you,” Scythe said. Like Norr, she had seen the murderous intent in the gigantic wizard's eyes, and she understood what it meant. “You saw what happened to Jerrod.”

“That wasn't Keegan's fault,” Vaaler protested. “He wouldn't hurt one of us. Not on purpose.”

“I agree,” the barbarian said, then added, “But he is not himself right now. Let him go.”

A soft groan from Jerrod's prone form drew their attention. Norr rushed into the clearing and crouched down beside him.

“He's still alive,” he said, surprised. “Scythe, come help him.”

Scythe made her way over to the fallen monk, Vaaler following uncertainly behind her.

“I doubt there's anything I can do,” she said without even bending down to check him out.

Still crouched over their injured companion, Norr's gaze was now level with her own.

“Please,” he said, looking into her eyes. “At least try. For me.”

She sighed and bent down to investigate.

“Help me get this cloak off him.”

Under the Danaan garment Jerrod's body was badly bruised. Dark purple splotches covered his torso and limbs. Scythe checked for broken bones, but to her surprise found nothing more serious than a few cracked ribs. He had suffered a blow to the head that had knocked him unconscious, but there didn't appear to be any fractures in the skull.

“He'll live,” she said. “But he'll be in a lot of pain when he wakes up.”

“I'm awake now,” Jerrod replied in a weak whisper, responding to her voice. “Where's Keegan?”

Vaaler was the first to answer. “He … he left. He was heading north.”

“We have to go after him.” Jerrod struggled to stand up, but Scythe held him down easily.

“You're not going anywhere. Not with the beating you've taken.”

Ignoring her he turned to Norr.

“Help me up. Hurry.”

The big man glanced at Scythe, who rolled her eyes and moved aside. He lifted Jerrod to his feet then stepped away gingerly, ready to catch the wounded monk if he was unable to stand on his own.

Jerrod swayed but remained standing, though he was nearly doubled over from the pain in his cracked ribs. He bowed his head in concentration and took a long, deep breath.

The bruises on his body began to fade. Scythe had heard tales of the Order's supernatural recuperative abilities, and she had suspected them to be true while watching Jerrod tend to Norr's injuries after their escape from Torian. Now her suspicions were confirmed. Even so, she was amazed at the miraculous recovery happening before her very eyes. Within seconds his healing magic had knitted his bones so that he could stand up straight.

“Now,” he said, gasping slightly from the exertion of mending his injuries, “tell me again where Keegan went.”

“He went north,” Vaaler said. “I think … I think he was heading back to Ferlhame.”

A shadow passed across the monk's face.

“Are you certain?”

“He's heading to the city,” Scythe confirmed. “I'm sure of it.”

“I still don't understand why,” Vaaler admitted. “We're safe now. I heard the horns blowing their retreat.”

Jerrod frowned but didn't answer, and Scythe shook her head in disgust.

“You can't even admit it, can you?”

“Admit what?” Vaaler asked her. “What are you talking about?”

“Jerrod's precious savior is going to destroy Ferlhame.”

“No,” Jerrod said defiantly. “He would not do that. He is our champion; he is the protector of the mortal world.”

“I saw the look in his eyes,” Scythe said. “He wanted revenge. He wanted to destroy.”

“No,” Jerrod repeated. “There must be some other explanation. He must have gone north for some other reason.”

“He turned himself into a giant and marched off to destroy the city,” Scythe insisted. “What other explanation can there be?”

“Jerrod,” Vaaler asked, fear in his voice, “What if she's right?”

“We must have faith in Keegan,” Jerrod assured him. “He will stand against the forces of Chaos and destruction; he will not unleash them on us. He is our champion.”

“How can you say that?” Scythe protested. “You saw what he did to Torian. He'll do the same to Ferlhame.”

“Torian was not his fault,” Jerrod muttered. “It was an accident. Chaos is difficult to control. Keegan needs more training to master his power so he can fulfill his destiny.”

“You think he's some mystical savior, but you're wrong,” Scythe said. “He's just a mage drunk with ambition, a wizard gone out of control. Why can't you admit that?”

It was Norr who answered her.

“Because there is no one else. Keegan is his last hope.”

Vaaler turned to the monk.

“Is this true?” he demanded angrily. “Are you willing to stand idly by and let my people be slaughtered?”

“I do not believe Keegan will slaughter your people,” Jerrod said without hesitation.

Scythe threw her hands up in exasperation.

“You can't argue with a fanatic,” she noted, dismissing Jerrod's opinion. “But you aren't like him, Vaaler. You saw what we saw. And you know I'm right. Keegan is going to destroy the city.”

Vaaler didn't want to believe her. He knew Keegan, or at least he thought he did. But he'd thought he had known Drake, too. And the young man he remembered from their days studying under Rexol was not the same man he had seen today. Keegan was a wizard now, and Vaaler knew from his studies that the Chaos left its mark on all who used it. It could have changed Keegan, perverted him into something he wouldn't recognize. It could have turned him into Rexol.

“I can't let him destroy Ferlhame,” he said solemnly. “We have to stop him.”

“You can't.” Scythe said simply. “We've seen him level a city and rout an army with his magic. You wouldn't stand a chance.”

“I'm the one who brought him here; I'm the one who gave him the Ring!” Vaaler shouted. “This is my fault, and those are my people in that city!”

“Forget about the city,” Scythe snapped back. “We have to worry about ourselves now. I say we get the horses and ride south, away from Ferlhame.”

“What about Keegan?” Norr asked. “We can't just abandon him.”

“Keegan can look after himself. But we have to get out of these woods before the patrols have a chance to regroup.”

“No, we have to go after him,” Jerrod said, joining the conversation again. “But not to try and stop him.

“The power of the Ring is limitless, but Keegan's ability to control it is not. Eventually his strength will falter and he will be vulnerable. We must be there to help him when that time comes.”

“Then there's still a chance to stop him before he reaches the city,” Vaaler said hopefully.

“Right now all the power of the Ring is his to command,” the monk said. “Until his will is spent no mortal can stand against him. I do not believe he intends to destroy the city, Vaaler. But if that is his purpose you must understand that he cannot be stopped.

“And you must understand that Keegan is still the only one who can stand against the Slayer's return. Even if he destroys Ferlhame, you must accept that he is our only hope. When you brought us the Ring you made a choice. Do not turn your back on that choice now. Your loyalty must be to the future of the entire world, not just your people.”

Vaaler opened his mouth to say something else, then dropped his head and slumped his shoulders in resignation.

Jerrod was right. He had felt the terrible power of the Chaos that Keegan had summoned; he had seen the remarkable transformation of his friend in the clearing. Such things would have been impossible, even for Rexol. Keegan's magic was beyond that of any other mortal; there was nobody else who could wield the power of the Talisman and survive. He gave a grim nod to show he understood the truth of the situation.

Satisfied he had secured the loyalty of the Danaan prince, Jerrod turned to Norr. “Gather the horses. We must move quickly or we will arrive too late.”

As the big barbarian moved off to follow the monk's command, Scythe realized her lover wasn't about to abandon Keegan yet, despite all that had happened. Which meant she wasn't going anywhere yet, either.

With a sigh she asked, “So what happens when we get to the city?”

“By the grace of the True Gods we will arrive in time to help Keegan when his strength falters,” Jerrod replied. “And I pray we will find that your assumptions about him were wrong.”

She didn't say anything, simply leapt up into the saddle when Norr brought her horse around. Jerrod scooped up the wizard's fallen staff from the ground and secured it to one of the mounts. Then they set off toward the city without speaking, easily following the path of destruction Keegan had carved through the forest.