Children of Fire (36 page)

“It took much convincing on my part,” the man explained in a much quieter voice than the one he had used at his first greeting. “Lady Beethania was reluctant to give you an audience: You have been declared heretics by the Order.”

So news from the Monastery had already reached beyond the farthest borders of the Southlands. Keegan wondered how Jerrod would respond to the accusation, but the monk said nothing.

Obviously uncomfortable with the silence, Khamin Ankha tried to further explain his position.

“Even though the Order holds no influence here, she was afraid of making a powerful enemy if we acknowledged your presence. But my counsel prevailed upon the City Lord, and she at last came to understand the potential benefits for Torian if we were to give you a more suitable welcome.”

The fat man leaned forward eagerly, like a fishwife eager to hear the latest gossip. “Tell me, are the rumors true? Is Rexol really dead?”

Jerrod nodded, then warned, “This is not the place to speak of this, Khamin.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, sitting up straight once more. “Where are my manners? Gentlemen, if you would please follow me I shall take you to meet our ruler, the most noble Lady Beethania.”

“I don't like this,” Norr said again. He had been uneasy ever since it became clear the wizards they followed were heading to Torian. Scythe could guess the reason. Of all the Free Cities, Torian was the farthest east—less than a day's ride from the borders of Norr's own homeland. In the past, it had been common for some of the more war-like barbarian tribes to raid the smaller settlements along the border: pillaging towns; burning farms; killing and raping the defenseless villagers; and leaving only charred, smoldering corpses behind.

In retaliation, Torian would send heavily armed patrols into the Frozen East to extract bloody vengeance on the invaders. Their retribution was swift and gruesome, and at times the icy steppes were dotted with a hundred crucified corpses of Norr's people. Often the victims of Torian's vengeance were not even those responsible for the killing of the Southlanders. The Free City patrols knew little about the vast differences among the many tribes—and wouldn't have cared even if they did. To those in and around Torian, the people of the East were all the same: savages, animals in human skin deserving a terrible, painful death. Killing one was as good as killing another.

And the policy of Torian's patrols was to kill as many Easterners as they could on their excursions, leaving their tortured, mutilated bodies on display as a warning against further raids. Men, women, children—none were spared the ruthless, misdirected justice. Only when they had slain ten Easterners for every single victim of the raids would Torian's officials call off the hunt.

There hadn't been a raid in the area in nearly twenty years—more a result of the Easterners' concentrated efforts to exterminate the most war-like tribes among their own people than the bloodshed of the Free City patrols, according to Norr. Yet there was still a standing bounty in Torian for the head of any savage caught within twenty miles of the city.

But their quarry was heading to Torian, and Scythe wasn't about to let them go. Not now, when she and Norr were only a little more than a day behind them. She had expected to catch up with them much sooner. Three nights ago they had closed to within a day of their prey—and then disaster had struck. Norr's horse had broken down, its foreleg snapping as tried to leap across a small stream with the massive barbarian atop its back. They had lost several days trying to find a mount large and strong enough to bear Norr's weight for eighteen hours of every twenty-four. And when they finally located the magnificent beast her lover now rode, he had refused to allow Scythe to steal it from the owner's stable. Scythe had handed over a substantial sum of coin—the last of her emergency stash—and Norr had spent a full day working the farmer's field before the owner considered the value of the animal to be paid in full.

It had taken them this long to make up the lost ground, pushing their horses and themselves to the limits of endurance. And now they had come up a day short. The men had camped here just last night, only a few hours away from Torian. The trail led from the camp to the main road into the Free City; no doubt the wizards were even now passing through Torian's mighty gates. And it was impossible for Norr to follow them.

But Scythe wasn't ready to admit defeat. Not yet. Which was why she was going on alone.

“I don't like this,” Norr repeated once more.

Scythe realized she wouldn't be able to leave until she had reassured him one more time.

“It will only take me a few hours to reach the city,” she said, saddling up her horse in preparation for the trip. “I'll scout things out, see if I can get any information. I'll see if I can find out why they went to Torian, and if and when they'll be coming back to the Southlands. Once we know that, they're ours. We can set up an ambush and wait for them to walk right into our trap.”

“What if they see you?” the big man asked.

“Torian's a big place. I'll blend into the crowd. They'll never even know I'm there.”

“What if you see them?” Norr's voice was even more worried now.

She hesitated, uncertain what to tell him. In the end, she decided on the truth. Norr knew her too well for her to lie anyway. “If I see them, I'll kill them.”

“Scythe …,” her lover began, but she slung herself up into the saddle before he could continue.

“Don't worry, I'll be back tomorrow. The day after at the latest. Stay here, stay out of sight. When I come back this might all be over.”

“I want to come with you.”

She nudged her horse over to where Norr was standing. Mounted on her steed she was actually taller than he was. Barely. She leaned down slightly and planted a soft, warm kiss on his bearded cheek.

“You can't, my love. It's too dangerous. But I won't leave you. I will come back. I promise.”

Norr nodded, a slight bob of the head. As usual, he understood. It had to be this way. He couldn't come with her, and she couldn't simply let the men who had destroyed their life in Praeton get away free … even if she had hated that life. That was just the way she was. Norr knew he couldn't change her, and to his credit he had never tried. That was why she loved him and hated to leave him, even if only for a day or two.

She wheeled her horse away and rode off toward the main road. The sooner she reached Torian, the sooner this could all end. And she and Norr could begin once more to search for a life in which they would both be happy.

“Why does the Order want you dead?” Lady Beethania asked between bites of braised pheasant. She brought the topic up casually, as if asking how their journey had been.

Keegan wondered how much she really knew. In the Southlands all the prophets working for the nobility were members of the Order. No doubt they would be under strict instructions from the Pontiff not to reveal what they knew about Jerrod's heretical followers lest they find converts among the political elite. But in Torian the Order didn't hold sway. Were Seers common here? Did Lady Beethania have a prophet working for her who had warned her of their coming?

“We have different interpretations of the fate of the world,” Jerrod answered slowly, obviously sharing his companion's concerns about how much their host was aware of. His speech was ponderous and heavy, as if every word required careful thought. “Great and terrible times are in the future, my lady. The Order fears to acknowledge the evil that is to come.”

Khamin laughed at the coy response. “Come, Jerrod. You think we are ignorant? You aren't the first to speak of a second Cataclysm, you know.”

“The way I have heard it told,” Lady Beethania slyly suggested, “you and your followers are the ones who will ultimately be responsible for unleashing the second Cataclysm upon us. It makes me wonder who to believe.”

“Prophets do not always see clearly,” Jerrod admitted. “But I stand against the Pontiff and the Order, and I know they are no friends of yours. That is why we have come to you for help.”

With a knowing wink the Lady answered, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or so they say.”

Again, Keegan wondered how much she knew. He took a sip of wine, only to have a servant rush to refill it as soon as he placed the cup down. Like many of the dishes in the opulent feast before him, the wine had a strange and unfamiliar taste. But after weeks of nothing but stale bread, cheese, cured meat, and water he was more than eager to gorge himself on whatever was offered. Jerrod was similarly eager to sample the fine exotic fare Khamin's employer had laid out before them.

The heavy meal, the rich wine, and the warmth of the fire were making Keegan sleepy. He struggled to keep his eyes from closing of their own accord and tried to focus on the conversation at hand. The reception they had received had not been hostile, but it was obvious both Khamin and his liege were not eager to incur the wrath of the Pontiff. It appeared it was going to be difficult to secure their help; he needed to pay attention.

Despite his efforts, his mind only hoped that once the supper was over Lady Beethania would offer them each a warm, soft bed for the night.

“You have to help us,” Jerrod said in a long, slow slur. “The Legacy is failing. The Slayer and the Chaos Spawn will come again to the mortal world, and Keegan must be our champion to stand against them.”

Had his lids not been as heavy as bricks, Keegan's eyes would have popped open in surprise. Why was Jerrod telling them that? It was strange the monk would so willingly divulge so much to someone they had just met.

“Oh yes, I know all about this young man's power,” Khamin said as he rose to his feet and slowly walked the length of table toward Keegan. “We have met once before. Or do you not remember, Keegan? Have you so easily forgotten how you disrupted my display of Chaos magic the last time we met?”

Through the thick fog closing in around his mind it all came back to the young wizard. He hadn't recognized the man in his purple robes, but now there was no mistaking his features or his name. Khamin Ankha—the traveling magician claiming to be Rexol's apprentice at the tavern in Endown. The one Keegan had embarrassed in his efforts to win the affections of a young barmaid.

Keegan tried to leap to his feet but his body wouldn't respond. Across the table he saw Jerrod slumping sideways in his chair.

Khamin Ankha was beside him now, leaning close to whisper into his ear. “The next time you humiliate a man, you had best remember his name. You may have forgotten our last encounter, but I most assuredly have not. And now I shall have my vengeance. Remember this as you burn at the stake for heresy!”

“Don't make this so personal, Khamin,” the City Lord admonished, her words sounding muffled to Keegan's ears. “This is merely a politically wise decision. The Order is a powerful ally, one we have too long neglected. This execution will be an excellent first step in securing Torian's new place of importance among the Pontiff and his followers.”

“Of course, my lady,” Khamin replied, grabbing one of Keegan's wild braids in his beefy fingers and tilting the young man's head back. “A politically advantageous situation must be exploited. My personal vengeance is merely an enjoyable side benefit.”

The fat man lashed out with his fist, landing a hard punch on his helpless victim's nose. As the blood streamed from his nostrils, Keegan's drug-addled mind barely had time to wonder at the fact that he hadn't felt the blow. And then the darkness took him.

Scythe knew she'd have little trouble gathering the information she sought. The streets of Torian were much like those of any other city. Wider, cleaner, but still teeming with life, still buzzing with the news of the city if you knew who to ask. From the moment she had passed through the guarded gates, Scythe knew she was in her element.

She thought she'd begin by asking one of the gatemen for information, but she saw no reason to rush her investigation. It was getting dark; she would end up spending the night here in any case. She might as well enjoy it—the sights, the smells, the sounds, the crowds. And besides, she might need some coin to pry the information out of the guards, and she'd spent the last of her funds on replacing Norr's mount.

There were other ways to loosen the guard's tongue, of course. Once she would have considered it a waste to spend coin on something she could obtain with flirtatious banter and a suggestive manner, but since meeting Norr her perspective had changed somewhat. Now her sexuality had value beyond what she could barter it for; it was something special between her and her lover.

And after catching a glimpse of herself in a shop window, Scythe had to wonder if her charms would even be noticeable beneath the thick layer of accumulated road grime. That was another thing she'd need money for: a hotel where she could draw herself a nice, hot bath.

Not that obtaining money proved to be any trouble. She may have temporarily lost her looks, but her pickpocket skills were as sharp as ever. Within an hour she had scouted out Torian's merchant center and successfully acquired an even dozen purses, pouches, and wallets. The coins would be more than enough to buy the information she needed, obtain a luxurious room for the night, and replenish their supplies with enough food to satisfy Norr's enormous appetite for at least a fortnight.

Remembering the dirty, mud-caked waif she had witnessed in place of her own reflection, Scythe decided to start by getting a room and cleaning herself up. Maybe if she was lucky the information she was after could be had from the inn's tavern and she could save herself a trip to the south gate's watchtower.

The innkeeper eyed her filthy clothes and soiled face with suspicion, but his attitude quickly changed when she dumped a pile of gold coins in his lap and demanded the best room in the house. She had given the proprietor at least triple what the room was worth, but she considered the money to be well spent for the effect it had on the attitude of the entire staff toward her. By the time Scythe finished her bath her clothes had been laundered and dried by the fire then laid out on her bed by one of the maids. A small note on the pillow told her an extravagant meal was being prepared especially for her by the cook and would be brought to her room as soon as it was ready.

She'd offered no explanation for her apparent wealth, but given her exotic features and disheveled state on arrival, she could imagine the types of rumors the staff would already be spreading about her. An Island princess on the run from a sibling trying to steal her throne; one of the famed pirate queens who roamed the Western Seas eager to retire from the cutthroat life and live on her ill-gotten fortune; the foreign mistress of a Southern noble fleeing an abusive relationship—any or all could fit. But whatever or whoever they thought she was, they were convinced of two things: She was rich, and she was mysterious.

As she dressed in her once more clean clothes, Scythe briefly considered eating in her room, then decided against it. She wanted to mingle with the patrons at the bar to see if they had any information about the wizards. And making an appearance would add fuel to the wild speculation already swirling about her.

The innkeeper scuttled over as she descended the stairs, a look of genuine concern on his face.

“My lady,” he gushed, “I hope there is nothing wrong. Did you receive my note? I assure you, the meal will be ready in a few minutes. I apologize for the delay, but preparing a fine feast requires more time than the simple meals we usually serve.”

He spoke with the ingratiating patter of the practiced sycophant, groveling and apologizing with each word. In Callastan she had often heard such speech directed toward wealthy customers wandering market square, and it never failed to fill her with revulsion and contempt for both the speaker and the snob being addressed. Much to her surprise, she found she rather enjoyed the fawning tone when it was directed at her.

“Everything is fine,” she assured the obsequious innkeeper, trying to adopt the haughty, cultured air she associated with the rich. “However, I believe I will dine in the tavern with the common folk. I have traveled long in my journey without conversation and I am eager to learn the news of the city.”

The man bowed so low his chin nearly brushed his knees. “As you wish, my lady. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to your table?”

Scythe did precisely that, slipping her sleek sleeved arm into the crook of the man's elbow and accompanying him down the stairs.

Back in her room later that night Scythe was almost too excited to sleep. The evening had gone better than her wildest imaginings. She had expected a long night of gathering information, trying to track down the men she had been following since Praeton. A long and expensive night. But to her surprise, the bartender had provided her with all the information she needed completely free of charge.

It began when the innkeeper, trying to make pleasant dinner conversation, had asked if she was going to the executions tomorrow. The arrests of the strange travelers were the talk of the city, and the innkeeper was only too happy to answer her questions about the events of the day. It didn't take long for Scythe to determine that it was indeed her quarry that had been captured by the City Lord and sentenced to death.

She had felt a brief pang of regret, knowing she wouldn't have the pleasure of killing them herself. But when the innkeeper mentioned that the men arrested were to be publicly burned as heretics at noon tomorrow, she took some solace in the prospect of witnessing their agonizing end.

No longer burdened with the task of tracking the men down, she had spent the remainder of the night playing the part of a rich, exotic stranger with a mysterious secret to the full. When she finally retired to her bedchamber, she knew the gossip in the tavern would be as much about the mysterious Island woman staying at the inn as it would be about the coming executions.

As her head hit the pillow Scythe felt sleep quickly overwhelming her. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was. She snuggled beneath the soft, warm covers and couldn't help but feel a little guilt when she thought of Norr having to sleep on the cold, hard ground once more.

Still, she knew he would be pleased to know the hunt was over. He'd be even more pleased when he learned Scythe hadn't killed them herself. As her mind slipped willingly into the darkness of a deep, deep sleep Scythe's last thoughts were of how perfectly everything had worked out.