Children of Fire (47 page)

One hundred and fifty yards away he thrust his hand up into the air, fingers clenched in a tight fist.

One hundred yards away the wyrm opened its jaws to reduce his foe to ashes. The Chaos burst forth from the Ring in a single glorious beam of pure white. It arced from Keegan's palm and plunged down the beast's gaping maw.

Fifty yards away the dragon exploded into a thousand chunks.

The force of the blast sent Jerrod and his horse hurtling through the air. The monk threw himself clear as his mount's body slammed into the ground, rolling to absorb the force of the impact. A spray of boiling blood splashed over him, searing his flesh and melting the fabric of his Danaan robe.

He ignored the pain of his burned skin and the screams of his dying horse as he sprang to his feet and crossed the last fifty yards at a run that was only slightly slower than the stallion's charge.

Keegan was still standing with his hand raised to the heavens, though he was no longer conscious. His body was rigid as steel, frozen in place by the Chaos surging through him, devouring him from the inside. Great arcing beams of white light shot out from the Ring to lash at the city in a wild, random pattern, obliterating everything they touched.

Twenty feet from Keegan Jerrod scooped up the sword of a fallen soldier without breaking stride. Smoke began to curl up from the wizard's skin.

Ten feet away a beam of deadly white light hurtled toward his chest. He ducked and somersaulted beneath it without losing any momentum, coming out of the roll five feet from the wizard's frozen form.

He leapt high into the air, flipping over as he did so. The Danaan blade flickered out, slashing at Keegan's upraised fist. Jerrod's forward momentum allowed the thin blade to slice cleanly through skin, tendon, and bone.

The arcing white beams vanished as the link between Talisman and wizard was broken, instantly terminating the spell. Keegan crumpled limp and unconscious to the ground, his cleanly severed hand—finger still wearing the Ring—landing beside him a moment later.

Three days had passed since the battle at Ferlhame, but Scythe knew it would take far, far longer for them all to recover from what had happened.

Jerrod had emerged from the wreckage that had once been the Danaan capital carrying Keegan's unconscious body, the young wizard's left arm wrapped in torn bandages to stem the bleeding from the cleaved stump that had once been his hand. Scythe had also noticed that the Ring dangled from a chain around the monk's neck, though she hadn't mentioned it at the time.

With their small group reunited, they had retreated into the forest where the monk had done his best to tend to Keegan's wounds. Within a few hours the young man had regained consciousness, though he was so weak he couldn't even stand. Despite this, Jerrod had insisted they move on, claiming it wasn't safe to linger so near the city.

Scythe had half expected Vaaler to abandon them at that point. She thought he might go back to try to help his people in the aftermath of the destruction, but the prince had simply saddled up and ridden off with them. Obviously he felt his place was at Keegan's side now.

Jerrod's horse had been killed during his mad rush into the battle, meaning they had only four mounts for the five of them. Since Keegan was in no condition to ride alone this hardly mattered. They had placed him and Scythe on the same horse: Between them they were far less of a burden than Norr was to the unfortunate animal bearing his massive girth. The wizard rode in front with Scythe behind so she could help support him in the saddle whenever his exhausted body began to droop to one side or the other.

Since then they had moved at a slow but steady pace. Vaaler had assured them they didn't need to worry about the patrols anymore: All the Danaan would have been recalled to help with the rebuilding of Ferlhame and to care for the city's many wounded. He had said little else as he rode at the head of the group, leading them through the forest.

Scythe could understand his silence; he was struggling to cope with the destruction of his city and the guilt of knowing he had played a part in it. To make matters worse, there was the constant reminder of all the dead Danaan they passed. Several times in the first two days they had come across the gruesome remains of a patrol, their bodies impaled or hung from the branches of the trees and their throats stuffed with brown and withered leaves. But now they were nearing the eastern edge of the forest, and they seemed to have left the disturbing scenes behind them.

It had been Norr's idea to head east. There was really nowhere else for them to go. In the Southlands the remains of the Order would be hunting for them. By now news of Torian's fate would have all of the Free Cities up in arms. And the idea of traveling farther north into Danaan territory was unthinkable. Even so, Scythe had been surprised when Norr suggested they head for the lands of his people.

She supposed that was why he was so quiet during the journey. Her lover had never spoken of his homeland, or why he had left. She had long suspected the story was a painful one, and his somber mood now seemed to confirm that. He had chosen to ride at the head of the group beside Vaaler, and she had taken the hint and left him alone with his thoughts.

Jerrod rode at the back of the group. The monk had little to say, and Scythe couldn't help but wonder if he was suffering through a crisis of faith. His great champion had dared to use the power of the Ring and had survived … but only after being maimed so badly that even the monk's healing powers couldn't restore his lost hand.

He had defeated a dragon, but thousands of innocents had died in the process, and she wondered if the terrible destruction Keegan had unleashed might be enough to make even a religious zealot question the value of his beliefs.

As for the young wizard himself, he drifted in and out of consciousness as they rode. Most of the time he seemed to be unaware of where he was even when his eyes were open, which worried Scythe.

She had seen his power; she could only imagine what he might be capable of in his unbalanced state. Jerrod had tried to reassure her, swearing that without the Ring, Keegan was no threat to any of them. She only partly believed him.

But even though she was afraid of him, she also sensed how helpless and vulnerable he was. Keegan was physically weak, drained by his ordeal. He could easily succumb to sickness or infection in his severed stump. Despite her reservations about him and his supposed destiny, she didn't want him to die.

Surprisingly, Jerrod didn't seem concerned. He was convinced Keegan only needed time to rest and recover his strength. But for the first two days he had seemed perpetually trapped between a waking daze and a state of fitful, restless slumber. It was only last night that he had finally settled into a true sleep. He had woken up briefly when they had lifted him into the saddle, but within minutes he was snoring softly again, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horses' plodding hooves.

Their shared mount stumbled briefly, a jarring step. In the saddle in front of her the young man jerked awake with a sudden start, his head snapping from side to side in confusion as he tried to piece together his surroundings.

“Hush, hush,” she whispered, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You're safe. We're still riding. There's nothing to fear here.”

“How long have I been asleep?” he mumbled. It was the first time he had spoken anything coherent since the Ring had nearly killed him. Scythe took it as a good sign.

“It's been three days,” she said carefully, not sure how much he would remember.

“Three days since … since the dragon.” His voice was stronger now, but he didn't seem upset.

“That's right.” She spoke quietly enough that the others wouldn't overhear their conversation. If they realized Keegan was awake they might all want to speak with him at once, and she wasn't sure he was up to it. “Do you remember anything else?”

“The Ring … I couldn't control it anymore,” he muttered, taking a cue from the tone of her voice. He held up his wounded arm and stared at where his missing hand should be.

“Jerrod … saved me.”

“I guess he figured a savior missing a hand was better than a dead one,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them; the joke was in poor taste.

Fortunately Keegan seemed to appreciate the effort. He glanced back over his shoulder at her with a faint smile.

“I thought you didn't believe in saviors and prophecies.”

She didn't answer right away.

“I didn't used to,” she finally said. “But with everything we've seen, I might be having a change of heart.”

“I … I don't understand.”

“I was convinced you had gone back to Ferlhame to destroy it,” she admitted. “I thought you were acting out of revenge. But when I saw you fighting the dragon I realized I was wrong about you. The Danaan tried to kill you, yet you risked your life to go back and try to save them. Obviously, I misjudged you.”

Keegan shifted uncomfortably. After a long silence he whispered, “I did go back for revenge. The dragon just happened to get there first.”

Scythe didn't know how to respond to that. On the one hand his confession confirmed what she had first feared, but on the other hand he could easily have lied about his true motivations. His honesty had to count for something.

“I guess you were right all along,” he said, his voice filled with self-loathing. “I'm not the savior after all.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Scythe offered. “Whatever the reason you went back, you actually ended up doing the right thing. You stood against one of the Chaos Spawn and defeated it.”

“And destroyed half of Ferlhame in the process.”

“The dragon would have destroyed the entire city if you hadn't come along,” she countered, aware of how much she was sounding like Jerrod. Was she trying to convince Keegan, or herself?

“Why are you suddenly on my side?” he asked.

She didn't know, exactly.

“I've seen things I wouldn't have believed were even possible a month ago,” she said. “I don't know if you truly are the savior Jerrod thinks, but I'd be pretty damn stupid if I didn't realize there was something special about you.

“I'm not sure exactly what I've gotten myself caught up in, but it's something big. And I like to be part of the action.”

“This is not some grand adventure,” Jerrod said, abruptly joining the conversation.

He had ridden up silently behind them while she had been talking with Keegan, and Scythe wondered how much he had heard.

“The fate of the world hangs in the balance,” the monk continued. “Keegan is our only hope, and we must all be willing to do whatever is necessary to see that he fulfills his destiny.”

Scythe didn't say anything, but glared at him with burning hatred in her eyes. She was glad she'd had a chance to talk to Keegan alone before he had interrupted. Her feelings toward the young mage might be changing, but her dislike of the monk was as strong as ever.

“The Ring,” Keegan said, suddenly noticing the chain dangling from Jerrod's neck. He reached out slowly with his mutilated arm, oblivious to the fact that he couldn't have grasped the Talisman without his missing hand.

Jerrod leaned back and tucked the Ring beneath his cloak, hiding it from sight.

“I'll keep this for a while, Keegan,” he said softly. “You are weak; the Talisman's power is more than you can handle right now.”

The young man snatched his phantom hand back, as if it had extended of its own accord and he had only now just become aware of it.

“Yes, keep it for now,” he said, though his words didn't sound convincing. “Wait until my strength has returned.”

The monk frowned. “Even then using the Ring will be very dangerous,” he cautioned. “The Old Magic is the power of the True Gods. Whenever you unleash it you run the risk of waking any Chaos Spawn that might be entombed nearby.”

Scythe laughed despite herself.

“So after all we went through to get this Ring, now we can't even use it?”

“Chaos is dangerous,” Jerrod told her. “Whenever it is set free in the mortal world there are unforeseen consequences.”

“Backlash,” Keegan whispered.

The monk nodded. “You unleashed enough Chaos to fell a dragon and level an entire city. I shudder to think what the backlash of that might be.”

On that note he spurred his horse to a brisk trot and rode on up ahead to let the others know that Keegan's state had improved. Norr and Vaaler pulled up their horses and dropped back to greet the wizard, express their relief at his recovery. And then they continued on in silence once more, each of them lost in his or her own thoughts as they headed for the plains of the Frozen East.

“You have a visitor, my Queen.”

Rianna Avareen pulled her eyes away from the rubble that had once been her city. The Monarch's castle, bolstered by the Old Magic of her ancestor builders, had survived the destruction despite the battle against the dragon just beyond the gates. But of the rest of the Danaan capital—fully half the buildings—had been utterly destroyed.

For days she had stared from her window at the devastation, remembering the night the unquenchable fires had spread unchecked through the streets despite the efforts of her mages and sorcerers. Hourly she received casualty updates; just this morning the numbers of the dead had surpassed five thousand. And there were many bodies yet to come.

The grim air of death hung over the city like a pall. Not a single citizen had escaped the horror without losing a cherished loved one. Even the Queen had suffered. Drake's body had been recovered from the forest, along with that of his patrol. Vaaler, the son who had betrayed her people, was nowhere to be found. She had never felt so powerless, or so alone.

“You have a visitor, my Queen. He requests an audience.” Andar's voice was louder this time, demanding a response from his silent liege.

The High Sorcerer had lost his wife, a captain of the guard, in the attack. His eldest son, a mage like his father, was still unaccounted for. Yet he performed the duties of his position with grace and honor. This was the bravery of a sort her people needed now, the courage to simply go on.

“I cannot give an individual audience to one of our people no matter the scope of his tragedy,” the Queen said wearily. “We have all suffered beyond what we can bear, and I am not strong enough to shoulder the burden of others.”

The truth shamed her, but she knew it must be so. She had to conserve her strength and her energy. The Danaan would rebuild Ferlhame, and they would turn to Rianna to lead them. She had to be ready for the ordeal.

“It is not a citizen, my Queen. Nor an emissary from one of the other cities in the kingdom. He is not a Danaan.”

Rianna drew her breath in sharply. “A human dares come to us now, after one of their kind brought this upon us?”

“N-no, my Queen,” Andar stammered. “He is definitely not human.”

Only now did Rianna see the terror the High Sorcerer was struggling to keep in check.

“His name is Orath. He calls himself a … a Minion. He brings us a gift.”

“What gift?” she asked, her throat suddenly dry.

“Revenge.”