Children of Fire (33 page)

As she lay there, momentarily dazed, the truth hit her with nearly as much force as the blast that had knocked her off her feet. The men weren't merchants—they were wizards! And she had set Norr against them!

She jammed the leather pouch and its contents into her belt and scrambled to her feet. She unlocked the door to the hall and raced down the stairs into the tavern. Instinctively she had drawn the throwing dagger she always kept in her boot. She wasn't about to trifle with wizards; if she saw the opportunity to kill them she would. She only hoped it wasn't too late.

The scene that greeted her was one of mass destruction. Every table in the place was overturned, most of them broken. The chairs were splintered and cracked and jumbled in heaps against the walls, blown out from the center of the room by the force of the explosion. Forks, knives, and cracked mugs were scattered everywhere. The ceiling beams were twisted and bent and cracked, though it looked as if there was no immediate danger of the roof collapsing.

The two strangers were nowhere to be found. The men and women of Praeton were slowly picking their way through the wreckage, just now recovering from the effects of the Chaos unleashed in their midst. Cuts and bruises and huge welts were common in the crowd. Several people limped noticeably, others cradled injured arms as they shuffled through the mess.

Norr was crouched on the floor near the center of the carnage beside a motionless body, along with several other men of the village. Scythe dropped her throwing dagger at the foot of the stairs and rushed over, her stomach lurching as she noticed the grim shock etched on the faces of the battered townsfolk.

Gil lay on the ground, his sweat-covered face a mask of agony and his breath coming in short, quick gasps. The sharp white of bone jutted out from the thigh of his left leg; Scythe could see his right was shattered in at least two places below the knee. His ashen pallor and glazed eyes made it obvious his injuries had sent him into shock.

Despite this, nobody was doing anything. They simply huddled around him, their faces a mix of bewildered disbelief and paralyzed horror. Norr held his hand, as if trying to send him strength and comfort through the connection. Scythe knew he needed more than that.

“Find me several pieces of wood, straight and about two or three feet long,” she ordered. When nobody moved she snapped, “Herrick, go! Hurry, if we want to save his legs.”

Herrick leapt up and began to scour the wreckage for boards to make a splint. The rest of them also sprang into action, yanked from their numbness by Scythe's take-charge attitude.

There was no healer in Praeton; the town was too small to warrant one. Taking Gil to a witch was out of the question—he wouldn't survive the trip, and Scythe doubted the townsfolk would let another Chaos user within their borders anytime soon. That left it up to her.

Methodis had taught her the basics of field surgery during her years on the
Dolphin,
though among the sailors amputation was the quickest and most common cure. But with Gil there were other options. If she could set and splint the bones he might even one day walk again, though he'd probably have to use a cane for the rest of his life.

She wasn't able to look across the wounded man at Norr, for fear of the accusation she would see in his eyes.

“You'll have to help me,” she said to her lover, not taking her eyes from Gil. “It's going to hurt, he's going to fight and scream. But you have to hold him still, no matter what. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

There was no emotion in his voice, nothing to give her a clue as to how he felt toward her one way or the other.

Herrick returned with the boards. She gave them a quick examination to make sure they would work. Satisfied, she slipped her largest knife out from its hiding place beneath her belt. Herrick's eyes got wide in surprise, but Scythe didn't even bother coming up with a lie to explain the blade's presence.

“Herrick, you stay. Grab two more strong men. We might need them to help hold Gil still while I operate. And clear everyone else out: This isn't going to be pleasant.”

Once the tavern was clear, Scythe took a deep breath to steel herself. “Let's begin.”

Gently she felt along his shattered lower right leg until she had some idea of how the bones had been broken and twisted beneath the skin. With even the faintest touch of her fingers, Gil moaned and trembled. Confident she could reset the leg so it would be reasonably straight, she placed both hands where the end of bone jutted up, bulging beneath the skin, and prepared to push.

“He's going to scream,” she warned Norr and the other men holding him down.

And scream he did.

The pounding of their horses' hooves was like thunder in Keegan's ears. Part of him wondered he could still hear at all, after the blast from the explosion he had unleashed within the tavern. He had only meant to create a small wall of force, a field of energy to push the townspeople away from Jerrod before the monk killed one of them. Instead he had nearly brought the entire building crashing down on their heads.

It had been the witchroot. The higher doses he had been consuming made it easier for him to draw power from the charm at his neck, and he had gathered more Chaos than he could control. That, and the adrenaline rush of the fight. Which shouldn't have happened at all.

“What were you thinking?” Keegan shouted out at the rider ahead of him. “Why did you attack those people?”

“I had to protect you,” the monk replied in calm, even tone.

Keegan briefly wondered how he could hear him over the crashing sound of their flight, then realized it must be yet another manifestation of the Order's power.

“But why did you have to react so violently?” Keegan pressed, not finding Jerrod's reply to be any kind of real answer. “We could have talked ourselves out of that situation without drawing all this unwanted attention. We could have spent that night sleeping in beds instead of riding nonstop until dawn!”

“You did not seem so intent on a peaceful resolution when you unleashed the thunder of Chaos in the center of the tavern,” Jerrod reminded him.

“I panicked,” Keegan admitted, then in his own defense added, “but it would never have come to that if you hadn't overreacted in the first place.”

“You assume the barbarian could have been reasoned with,” Jerrod replied. “But this is a time of great uncertainty. I sense the convergence of many prophecies and visions, and not all will come to fruition. There are forces at work in the world that would destroy you and the destiny you embody. The Order, for one. Perhaps other, more sinister enemies.

“My brothers and sisters have already given their lives for you, and I have sworn an oath to do the same. I will protect you with relentless vigilance, lest the sacrifice of those who have fallen before be in vain.”

After a brief pause while he let Keegan consider the significance of his words, Jerrod continued his explanation.

“Was it not strange to find an Islander and an Eastern savage there, in the tavern of that small town? I cannot believe that such a remarkable occurrence is mere coincidence. Something or someone manipulated events so that you and the barbarian would encounter each other at the bar.”

“Backlash,” Keegan called out, not sure if Jerrod would understand the reference.

“Backlash from Rexol's attempt to use the Crown. Yes, I have considered that.” Obviously the monk was familiar with the concept. “But there could have been other explanations. Perhaps a Pilgrim who serves the Order had discovered us, and hired the barbarian to hunt you down. Had I hesitated, the giant might have killed you with a single hard slap that snapped your neck. Prophecies are often undone with such a sudden, unexpected blow.”

“But you had no way of knowing if that barbarian was an assassin,” Keegan countered. “You don't even know for sure that he meant to harm me at all.”

“I cannot take that chance,” Jerrod replied.

“So what if I hadn't interfered?” Keegan wanted to know. “Would you have killed everyone in the tavern?”

“I did not kill,” the monk reminded him. “I disabled and neutralized. The only casualties from the fight will be from the Chaos you unleashed.”

That nearly cowed Keegan into silence. But he felt responsible enough to add one more thing.

“There will be some kind of backlash from my spell,” he warned. “We could end up fighting more innocent people. Promise me you won't hurt them.”

“I can't promise that,” Jerrod replied. “You are the savior of the world. I would sacrifice a thousand innocent men, women, and children if I believed it was necessary to protect your life.”

The monk's words, delivered in a voice so simple and matter-of-fact he might have been discussing the weather, chilled Keegan to his bones. He had no reply to such a mad statement, no way to reason or argue with such blind and ruthless devotion to a cause. True, the monk was on his side … but Keegan was no longer sure that was a good thing.

It would be several hours before Norr returned, Scythe figured. After the surgery, he and Herrick had constructed a stretcher to carry Gil back to his home. Likely both men would stay for some time, to make sure Gil was comfortable and to try to offer some solace to his wife.

She hadn't been forced to amputate; for that at least Scythe was grateful. But the break in the thigh had been bad. Very bad. It was doubtful it would mend cleanly. Even if it did, Gil would never be able to properly use his leg again.

And it was all her fault.

Norr hadn't spoken to her since the surgery. Partly because he didn't want the others to know the brawl had been part of Scythe's plan to steal from the travelers and partly, Scythe suspected, because he was too hurt and angry and disgusted with her to even know what to say.

When he got back, it wouldn't matter. Because she would be gone. She couldn't stay here, not after what she had done to these people. Norr could build a life here without her; she didn't deserve to be with him. Not anymore. She was leaving, and she would never come back.

If she left tonight she could still pick up the trail of the two men who had come into the town posing as merchants. She knew now they were nothing of the sort. Mages, warlocks, wizards: It didn't matter to Scythe what name they called themselves. And it didn't matter why they had passed through Praeton. All that mattered was they would pay for what they had done.

If she rode hard all night, she figured she could catch them in a day or two. Wherever they were—the next town, a camp in the woods—she'd wait until darkness. Until they went to sleep. And then she'd make sure neither of them would ever wake up again.

She packed quickly, taking only what she absolutely needed. And then, as she had so many times before with so many other men, she slipped soundlessly away into the night to abandon her lover.

Norr was outside waiting for her. She looked up into his eyes, but couldn't read them through the darkness.

“You're leaving?” he asked in a sad whisper.

“I can't stay here,” she replied, wishing she had been quick enough to avoid this confrontation. “Tonight was my fault. You even tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen.”

The barbarian sighed, but didn't say anything.

“I'm not meant for this life, Norr. If I stay, something even worse might happen. And that will be my fault, too. I have to leave. Tonight.”

Norr dropped to one knee so that their eyes were almost level. Inside them she saw not hate or anger or rage, but only sadness. Sadness and something else. Determination? Resolution?

He wrapped his huge arms around her and pulled her close against his chest.

“Then we leave together,” he whispered. Just that, nothing else.

And for the first time since they had met, Scythe cried.

The black silhouette gliding silently across the starless night sky moved in wide, slow circles, carefully scanning the earth below. Even from several hundred feet above, Raven's glowing, demonic eyes could pick out every detail of the frozen wasteland beneath her. But what she sought wasn't visible to the naked eye.

And then she felt it, a ribbon of pure Chaos winding its way eastward—a trail left by the one who fled with the Crown. Burning lust flared up within the cold darkness of Raven's twisted soul; a tangible hunger to possess and consume the Talisman's power seized her heart. But she knew to be cautious; she would not underestimate her prey's power, as Scirth had underestimated the Pontiff during his interrogation back at the Monastery. These mortals were not as weak and helpless as Daemron had led them to believe. Some, like the Pontiff and the one she hunted, had true power. Chaos was strong in their blood.

Had it not been so, she would have caught her quarry already. But during her hunt she had been led astray several times by false trails. Numerous times she had sensed tendrils of Chaos spiraling off in various directions. Eager to make the kill, she had raced after them, only to reach a dead end and realize she had followed a false path designed to lead her away from the Crown.

It was impossible to know if the one she followed was intentionally throwing her off the trail, or whether this was some type of instinctual defense mechanism conjured by the mortal's subconscious. In either case, though, the implications were undeniable: The one she hunted was drawing on the Crown's power.

Raven's wings ached with the twinge of exhaustion as she swooped down to examine this latest find; flying hundreds of wasted leagues chasing the false bait had taken their toll. She was strong, the strongest of the Minions except for Orath. Chaos bubbled and boiled beneath her ebony skin, giving her a physical endurance far beyond the mortal creatures that lived in this world where the Legacy made Chaos almost nonexistent. Its power had been bred into her magnificent body over countless generations—but even the Minions had their limits. And she was beginning to approach hers.

She landed silently on the snow, her naked female form crouching low to the earth as her majestic wings wrapped around her to give some shelter from the cold. Her avian head tilted to the side so that she could focus one of her glowing eyes on the trail. Now she was wise to the tricks and deceptions. She could be fooled by the magic no longer. She studied the trail for many minutes, weaving her own spells over the glowing traces of the Crown's passage, probing, testing, verifying until she was very, very sure.

This time, she knew with certainty, she had found her prey. It was many days since the Crown had passed; the taste of its power had already begun to fade from this place. But it had been here. Of that there could be no doubt. Now the hunt would begin in earnest.

Raven tilted her head back to scream her victory to the sky, the harsh call from her beak shattering the silence of the night.

Cold. So very, very cold.

Like all members of the Order, Cassandra could sustain her body through the most extreme environmental conditions. She could march for days in the blazing heat of the desert sun or through the frozen wastes. She could survive without food or water for weeks at a time … provided she was able to focus her power to do so.

But hunger and cold were the least of her concerns right now. She was being hunted. She knew that. And so she had instead channeled her energy into creating false trails, powerful illusions to throw her pursuers off course. She didn't fully understand how she did it: It had come to her in a dream.

The Crown was part of it, she understood that. Something inside the Talisman was alive on some level, a divine spark of the True Gods themselves, perhaps. This spark had reached out to her as she dozed; it had shown her how to create the false paths. But doing so required her to focus her energies outward, leaving her body vulnerable to the ravages of climate and physical suffering.

And so she had known the unfamiliar pangs of hunger on her journey through the wastes of the Frozen East, foraging for nonexistent plants to sustain her when her supplies had run out. She had known exhaustion and fatigue when her horse had finally died and she had continued on foot. She had known pain as her feet blistered and bled. She had known fear while cowering in a frozen ditch to hide from a roaming barbarian tribe. She had experienced a thousand different pains and sufferings as she trekked over the empty, windswept plains. But when she had crossed into the icy plains at the foot of the mountains, every other sensation had given way to the cold.

She had lost two fingers to the numbing chill. The skin was black and cracked and hard over the useless digits, and with her vision she saw rotting gangrene below the surface. Her toes were worse, her boots so encased in frozen ice they had fused with the flesh of her doomed feet. The lobes of her ears were gone, and the tip of her nose would soon follow. She had lost all feeling in her body, the chill seeping through her bones into her very core. Yet somehow she persevered.

It was the Crown. Packed away in the saddlebag she carried slung over her shoulder, its magic somehow sustained her through all her suffering. Her frozen corpse would have collapsed long ago, but the power of the Talisman animated her frost-ravaged limbs and she soldiered on.

She was aware of only three things. The cold. Her ever-nearing destination. And the insistent, insidious whisper telling her she could end her misery by simply placing the Crown atop her head. The Chaos could banish the cold and restore her lost body in a single, glorious flash of magical fire. If she wanted she could banish the endless winter and transform the Frozen East into a lush garden paradise. She could defend the mortal world against the Slayer and his Minions. She could stop the coming of the Cataclysm.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind a small part of Cassandra still existed, clinging to a single unshakable belief. This vision was a lie, the tempting lure of flawed and desperate Sight corrupted by her old master's teachings. She had been ensnared once by Rexol's trickery, and it had brought ruin on the Order. She would not yield to lies again. She would find the Guardian and deliver the Crown.

From many, many leagues away she heard a shrill scream, its inhuman caw echoing across the snow-covered plains. It sounded like the piercing shriek of some monstrous bird of prey, a sound that couldn't possibly be human, a sound of pure evil. Cassandra knew the beast that made that terrible cry was hunting her. There was nothing she could do but press on.