Chaos Unleashed

  She took off again, rounding the nearest corner only to see a small crowd milling around in front of Methodis’s shop. The door was ajar, knocked off its hinges.

  “Where is he?” she shouted, rushing over.

  “The Inquisitors took him,” a woman said with a solemn shake of her head.

  “Which way did they go?” Scythe demanded.

  No one in the crowd answered.

  “Maybe I can still catch them,” she snapped. “Someone just tell me which direction they went!”

  “They came twenty minutes ago,” the woman said. “You’re too late. He’s gone.”

  —

  Yasmin strode down the hall of Callastan’s massive city jail with long, quick strides, her pace just slightly faster than normal. As chief Inquisitor, she had performed more interrogations than she could remember, but never had the stakes been so high, and she was eager to begin.

  Every second we waste the Crown gets farther beyond our grasp!

  They had taken the city; now began the more arduous task of holding it. She had soldiers in every neighborhood, nailing up proclamations as they patrolled the streets so the citizens would be clear as to what was expected of them.

  For as long as the Order remained in the city, there were rules that must be followed: Nobody was allowed to leave the city; after sunset no one was permitted on the streets; no one was permitted to venture within a hundred yards of any ship, boat, or watercraft; citizens could not assemble in groups of seven or greater in public or private gatherings; all swords, spears, knives, clubs, bows, and crossbows had to be surrendered to representatives of the Order. Anyone caught violating these rules, the proclamations explained, would be imprisoned and held for trial, as would anyone harboring enemy combatants, known fugitives, or weapons of any sort.

  Where they would put any offenders, the Pontiff realized, was another problem they’d soon need to solve. Given its character, the city prison in Callastan was far larger than most. Even so, the cells lining either side of the long corridor she walked were already filled to overflowing with prisoners.

  Most were enemy soldiers captured during the fight or refugees apprehended while fleeing the city. Others were looters caught going through shops and abandoned buildings. A few were saboteurs who had struck during the night once the fighting was done, seized even as they tried to set fire to several buildings the Order had taken over as temporary barracks for their army.

  But they are all guilty of a much greater crime, as well: They have defied the will of the Order!

  She had briefly considered randomly selecting one of every ten of the prisoners for a massive public execution. In addition to clearing space in the jail, the fear of being burned alive might quell the whispers of rebellion. But Xadier had strongly advised her against it.

  We control the city for now, he’d warned her, but only barely. The spirit of rebellion still burns strong in these people. There is no need to fan the flames.

  In the end, she realized he was right—she’d let her anger over Cassandra’s escape cloud her judgment.

  Remember what is important. You are not here to punish the wicked.

  Once the city’s anger had cooled, most of the prisoners would probably end up being released…after questioning, of course. The bulk of those interrogations would be left to the rank and file. The Inquisitors would be reserved for those prisoners thought to have crucial knowledge.

  And as for the healer we captured this morning—he is mine!

  The reward she offered for information on Cassandra turned out to be money well spent. Several witnesses had claimed to have seen a blond-haired woman fighting alongside a band of pirates near the docks yesterday morning. And though the pirates and the woman had escaped via ship, there was one of their company left behind: a local healer who had apparently financed the venture.

  Did they betray you, Methodis? Yasmin wondered.

  If that was the case, it was possible he might be so eager for revenge he would immediately tell her everything he knew. Even if that happened, however, Yasmin would still need to perform a full interrogation to verify anything he told her.

  The Pontiff reached the end of the prison’s long hall and headed down a steep, narrow staircase. The healer was being held in a special cell down in the basement, one where his screams wouldn’t be heard by the other prisoners. Yasmin didn’t actually approve of the design—in the past she’d found great value in having other subjects know exactly what to expect while waiting for their turn to be questioned. Some Inquisitors actually believed that the fear of torture could be worse than the actual pain inflicted.

  Fear can be a useful tool, the Pontiff admitted to herself, but when properly applied the pain is always far more effective.

  Xadier was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Something about the look on his face bothered her.

  “You seem troubled.”

  “It’s the prisoner, Pontiff.”

  “What about him?”

  “He took something when the Inquisitors came for him.”

  “Poison?” she said, her stomach churning. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried suicide to avoid her questions.

  “Not exactly.”

  Puzzled, Yasmin let her awareness extend through the heavy door and into the tiny room where the prisoner was being held. Two Inquisitors stood watch over a tiny, elderly man strapped to a chair made of stone. He was completely naked and his wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, shoulders, and head were all held in place by thick leather straps tied to iron loops on the chair. A table against the wall held a number of implements capable of inflicting both intense pain and irreparable harm to the body, and a small brazier of hot coals was burning in one corner. It was all a familiar sight, and Yasmin still didn’t understand what Xadier meant as she thrust open the door and strode through.

  Methodis greeted her arrival with a prolonged giggling fit.

  Yasmin had seen terror express itself as mad, cackling laughter. But this was something different. Despite being strapped naked to a chair, there was no tension in the healer’s body. His muscles weren’t taut, his eyes didn’t dart from side to side, and his breathing was calm and relaxed.

  Moving closer, Yasmin noticed that his gaze didn’t follow her—he seemed to be staring off into the distance.

  “Do you know who I am, Methodis?” she asked. “I am Yasmin the Unbowed, Pontiff of the Order!”

  She thought she caught a glimmer of recognition in his glazed eyes, but he didn’t show any sign of fear or concern. Instead, he smiled as if meeting an old friend.

  Yasmin picked up a set of metal tongs from the table and used them to carry one of the burning coals from the brazier over to the prisoner. She pressed it against the skin of his thigh, and the flesh began to smolder and cook.

  Methodis didn’t scream. He didn’t thrash or strain against his restraints. His muscles didn’t even tense. But he did start giggling again.

  Yasmin removed the coal, her anger so great she could feel herself trembling. Whatever drug he’d taken before the Inquisitors took him made it futile to continue. As much as she enjoyed inflicting pain in the pursuit of truth, torturing a prisoner who couldn’t give information was pointless sadism.

  “How long until the drug wears off,” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “We don’t know, Pontiff,” Xadier admitted. “We found the empty vial in his shop but have not been able to identify it. It appears to be a unique concoction of his own creation.

  “We’ve induced vomiting and administered all the common narcotic antidotes, but nothing seems to have any effect.”

  “Come get me the second this passes,” she said, spinning on her heel and marching from the room.

  As she climbed the stairs, her ears burned with the faint but undeniable sound of the healer’s soft, easy laughter.

  “SHE’S COMING BACK,” Jerrod said as he sensed Scythe approaching on the fringes of his Sight.

  She’d warned them she
might be gone for days, but barely twenty-four hours had passed since she’d left.

  Beside him, Keegan jumped to his feet and brushed off his clothes with his one good hand. He peered out toward the dim outline of the city, but Jerrod knew in the evening dusk he wouldn’t be able to see anything. After a few seconds, he gave up and simply stood awkwardly waiting for her to arrive.

  “She’s running,” Jerrod added, knowing the young wizard would be hungry for any detail. “But I don’t think anyone is following her.”

  It wasn’t much longer before she burst into their camp, gasping for breath.

  How fast was she going, that even carrying the Sword she’s tired?

  “I found him!” she sputtered. “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

  “Who?” Keegan asked.

  “What about Cassandra?” Jerrod added.

  “Cassandra is gone,” Scythe blurted, her words running over each other in her haste to get them out. “She left on a pirate ship. And Methodis helped her escape!”

  “Calm down, Scythe,” Keegan said.

  “Who’s Methodis?” Jerrod wanted to know. “And how does he know Cassandra?”

  Scythe took several deep breaths, collecting her thoughts as she tried to recover from her run.

  “Methodis is a healer,” she finally said, speaking more slowly. “He raised me. I haven’t seen him in five years. I thought he was dead, but he’s not—he’s still alive!”

  “How does he know Cassandra?” Jerrod asked again.

  “I’m not sure,” Scythe said. “But he helped her escape Callastan. And now the Order has taken Methodis prisoner.”

  “You are certain all this is true?” Jerrod wanted to know.

  “I trust my sources,” Scythe answered.

  “Cassandra wouldn’t leave without the Crown,” Jerrod said. “That means the Pontiff failed to find the Talisman.”

  “You said she left on a ship, right?” Keegan chimed in. “In my visions, the Keystone was on an island. If Cassandra saw the same visions, that must be where she’s headed.”

  “Methodis must have helped her figure out how to find it,” Scythe said.

  “If the Order has him, then the Pontiff probably already knows all this, too,” Jerrod said. “Including the location of the Keystone.”

  “They only took him this morning,” Scythe said. “Maybe he hasn’t told them anything yet.”

  “If not, then he soon will,” Jerrod told her. “No one can resist Yasmin’s interrogations for long.”

  “That’s why I came back,” Scythe said. “We have to rescue him.

  “I saw where he’s being held,” she added. “A prison crawling with soldiers and Inquisitors. Too many for me to try to take them on alone.”

  “Do you really think the three of us have any chance against those kind of odds?” Jerrod asked.

  “We do if Keegan uses the Ring,” Scythe insisted. “This can’t be any harder than taking out the Danaan patrols that came after us in Ferlhame.”

  “That was different,” Jerrod said, cutting Keegan off before the young wizard could speak. “He was calling on the ancient power of the North Forest.”

  “But I’m stronger now,” Keegan argued. “I stopped the yeti army in the Frozen East, and the Ring will be even stronger here.”

  But the backlash from stopping the army might have killed Norr, Jerrod thought, but didn’t say out loud.

  “You still struggle to control your power,” Jerrod reminded him. “In Ferlhame, half the city was leveled when you and the dragon fought. And when you cast your curse on Shalana, the backlash created a rift between you, Scythe, and Vaaler, despite all the precautions you took.”

  He expected Keegan to find some other objection; he knew how badly he wanted to help Scythe. But to Jerrod’s surprise, she actually intervened on his behalf before Keegan could say anything.

  “White-eyes is right,” she agreed, chewing nervously on her lower lip. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to Methodis if you rain fire down on Callastan or accidentally wake up some kind of Chaos Spawn monstrosity.”

  “You don’t trust me?” Keegan asked, crushed.

  “I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him on purpose,” Scythe said, reaching out to lay a consoling hand on his arm. “But every time you use the Ring, people die.”

  “That is the essence of Chaos,” Jerrod reminded them.

  “If neither of you thinks I can safely use the Ring,” Keegan snapped, sullen and bitter, “then how do you expect me to stop Daemron?”

  “I would have faith in you if you were rested and strong,” Jerrod said. “But you still haven’t recovered from being lost in the Burning Sea.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Keegan,” Scythe chimed in. “I was only there for a few hours and it left me physically and mentally drained. You were trapped there for almost two whole days!”

  Keegan nodded but didn’t speak. His jaw was clenched and he stared down at the ground, refusing to look either of them in the eye.

  “We must come up with some other plan to rescue this healer,” Jerrod said. “He might be able to tell us how to find Cassandra and the Keystone.”

  “And we have to do it fast,” Scythe added grimly.

  She’s trying not to imagine the tortures the Pontiff will use during her interrogation, Jerrod realized.

  Nobody spoke for several seconds, then Scythe let out an angry shout and stabbed Daemron’s Sword into the ground at her feet. The blade dove deep into the hard earth, burying itself almost halfway to the hilt. Then she slumped down beside the Talisman until she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs and her knees pulled up close to her chest.

  “He was like a father to me. And I abandoned him,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d see him again. Now I find out he’s alive but there’s nothing I can do to save him this time, either.”

  Keegan looked over at Jerrod, then turned back to Scythe and took a seat beside her.

  “Maybe you can turn the city against the Order,” Keegan said, his own disappointment and anger forgotten as he tried to console her. “Use a rebellion as some kind of distraction.”

  Scythe seemed to consider his suggestion briefly before forlornly shaking her head.

  “The underworld is waiting for the chance to rise, but they won’t fight unless they think they can win. Right now the Order is too strong.”

  “Now that they’ve established control over the city, we’d need an army to take them on,” Jerrod agreed.

  Keegan looked up and gave him an angry glare, and he took a few steps away to give the young couple some space. Dusk had given way to darkness, so Jerrod crouched by the fire pit they’d dug last night. He stacked several small, dry twigs they’d gathered yesterday into an irregular, triangular tower. He slid several handfuls of dry grass inside, then went to the supply packs to grab the tinderbox.

  They’ve both suffered loss before, Jerrod told himself, striking the flint so that a shower of sparks leapt onto the dry grass. Let them grieve together, then they’ll find a way to continue on.

  —

  Keegan had his left arm wrapped protectively around Scythe’s shoulders though he was careful to keep the stump where his hand used to be from touching her. With his good hand, he gently rubbed her upper arm.

  A short distance away, Jerrod tended to a smoldering fire, shielding it from the breeze coming in from the sea. After a few seconds the flickering flames caught on the kindling. Satisfied, the monk stood up, but he didn’t come any closer.

  He’s letting me handle this, Keegan realized. He wanted to say something to Scythe but couldn’t think of anything that would help.

  First Norr, and now the man who raised her. How much more can she take?

  He’d lost his own father many years ago, and he’d never truly gotten over the loss. The pain was buried so deep that he would go days or even weeks without thinking about it, but it was still a part of him. It always would be. He couldn’t bear to imagine what
it would be like to feel that not once, but twice.

  Part of him wanted to ignore all the risks and warnings and simply try to use the Ring to help her. But they were right. He knew he didn’t have the mental strength to focus his will enough to control the power right now. If he unleashed Chaos against the Order, he might end up wiping Callastan completely off the map.

  What good is my power if I can’t help the people I care most about?

  It was hard enough carrying the burden of being the prophesied savior of the world. But being an impotent savior was much worse.

  He didn’t know if his feeble attempts to console Scythe were helping, but he thought he could feel the muscles in her shoulder and arm starting to relax. And then they suddenly went tense, and her head snapped up even as Jerrod announced, “Someone’s coming!”

  Scythe was on her feet so fast Keegan was left holding empty air. She snatched the Sword free from the ground and held it out in front of her with both hands wrapped around the hilt.

  Jerrod had also reacted before Keegan could even think about moving: The monk had dropped into a low crouch and tilted his head to one side. His brow furrowed in concentration as he pushed out with his awareness. The fire popped and crackled, causing Keegan to jump. And then the monk relaxed and stood up straight though his expression reflected in the fire’s glow was one of confusion.

  “Darmmid?” he called out into the shadows beyond their camp. “Is that you?”

  Keegan couldn’t believe his eyes as the bearded soldier stepped into the firelight.

  He must have been following us ever since I pretended to put that hex on him.

  “What are you doing here?” Scythe snapped, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “I did it,” Darm said, ignoring her and speaking directly to Keegan. “I brought you an army.”

  “He’s alone,” Jerrod said. “There’s nobody else out there.”

  “They’re coming, Keegan of the Gorgon Staff,” Darm said, dropping to his knees. “Vaaler is bringing the armies of the Free Cities to Callastan.”

  Vaaler?

  “Where did you hear that name?” Scythe demanded, stepping forward and placing the edge of her blade against the soldier’s throat.