Orath and Raven stayed back as the other five engaged the monks in a short but bloody melee. The monks were too slow to use their staves against the unearthly quickness of the Minions. The creatures swept through the crowd of helpless mortals, ripping and tearing with claws, talons, and teeth. Within seconds the ground was littered with writhing monks, many of them disemboweled or dismembered by the fury of their inhuman foes. The ground was stained with great pools of the Order’s blood that even the torrential rain could not wash away.
In a matter of minutes the entire force of the Order had been wiped out, the monks reduced to carrion by the savagery of their enemies. The Pontiff alone still lived, but he could only watch, powerless. His body was frozen by one of Orath’s incantations—he had been paralyzed at the start of the brief but brutal melee, unable to come to the aid of his dying brothers and sisters. The Minion had simply brushed aside the Pontiff’s efforts to defend himself against the Chaos, laying the most powerful member of the Order bare and vulnerable to the effects of his spell.
Orath approached the slaughter, surveying the scene of his victory with a twisted smile on his dark blue lips. “Ermus, Cerus—the survivors are yours.” The crawling twins scuttled forward and picked their way through the carnage, using their pig-like snouts to systematically tear out the throats of any monks that still twitched or showed any signs of life in their mangled bodies.
While Ermus and Cerus finished off their enemies, the other Minions were breaking the enchanted staves of the monks, causing flashes of bright light as the Chaos burst free. They captured the released energy, drawing it into themselves and feeding on the magic contained within the rune-etched wood. The Pontiff, held fast in the powerful spell of their leader, could do nothing but watch. Orath’s spell would not even allow him to close his sight on the gruesome scene.
“Enough,” the leader of the Minions finally called out. “Time grows short. Gort, Draco—find the Crown.”
Draco, the reptilian Minion, and Gort, the gorilla-bear, set off to search the Monastery for the ancient Talisman. Ermus and Cerus, the crawling twins, continued their grim executions while the others waited expectantly for Draco and Gort to return with their prize.
Despite the complete and total defeat of the Order, despite being held powerless in the grip of his enemies, the Pontiff felt some satisfaction. The Minions would not find what they searched for; all that remained was a pile of cinder and ash in the small room at the bottom of the library.
It was nearly an hour before they returned, empty-handed. “It is gone,” the alligator hissed. “Even the library is destroyed. They set fire to all the manuscripts. Everything is burned.” If he had been able, the Pontiff would have laughed out loud.
Orath approached the Pontiff, his drawn features twisting into a frown as the pupils of his yellow eyes narrowed. “Your attempt to thwart our search will not save you—our master’s return will not be so easily halted. Scirth will find out what we need to know.” His voice was whisper filled with menace. Orath motioned for the emaciated Minion with the angel’s wings to come closer.
Scirth approached and placed a single bony hand on the Pontiff’s throat. With the chilling touch the Pontiff could feel his life force, his very essence, being drained out of his body. His spirit was drawn from him, sucked into the gaunt, skeletal arm of Scirth. And with his spirit went his thoughts and memories.
“They once had the Crown here, but it is gone.” Scirth’s voice was soft and rasping. “Sent away even as we approached, taken east by one of the Order. This battle was only an attempt to stall us.”
The Pontiff fought against Scirth’s magic, gathering his own will to hold on to his knowledge, to hide from the Minions those secrets they must not know.
The mummified man trembled, his diseased wings quivering slightly. Scirth laughed, a truly cruel and evil sound. “He fights me, General. He knows much that is hidden.”
“Continue the interrogation,” Orath commanded. “He must know the location of the other Talismans. That was why they burned the library, to stop us from learning where they are hidden.”
The Pontiff could feel Scirth’s grip tighten around his neck, could feel the probing thoughts of the Minion slicing through his psyche. And he could feel his body growing weaker, withering and aging beneath Scirth’s touch.
“There is another. A monk, though he is no friend of the Order. And with him a young wizard of great power. They aided the one who was consumed by the Crown.”
Orath nodded. “It is as Daemron foresaw. A champion has arisen from among the mortals; a child touched by Chaos; the catalyst for the master’s return. What else? Where did he send the Crown?”
“His mind is strong,” Scirth admitted. “Much is still hidden. I must go deeper.”
Scirth’s mental invasion continued; the Pontiff could sense his thoughts being raped by Scirth’s mind even as he fought to keep the most vital secrets from being exposed. In desperation the Pontiff lashed out with his will, trying to destroy that which was destroying him. Scirth gasped and recoiled as if he had been stung, releasing his hold on the Pontiff’s throat. The Pontiff’s body, now that of an old, old man, collapsed on the ground.
“What is wrong?” Orath demanded.
“His mind is strong,” Scirth explained again. “He has worn the Crown. He is no longer a mere mortal; he has been touched by the magic of the Old Gods. This will be difficult, it will take some time. Have patience, my General.”
Orath frowned. “The more time we spend, the farther ahead of us the escaping monk gets.”
“I cannot rush,” Scirth cautioned. “I would not want to damage his mind, or destroy it. It must be carefully picked. He knows the locations of all the Talismans—I could sense it. We do not need the library; we will have all the information we need from this one, in time. But he shields himself and guards his secrets well. I must rest before I try again.”
Scirth lowered himself to the ground, curling his scrawny body into a tight ball then folding his moldering wings over his body. Orath watched impatiently, the others began searching the bodies of the monks, looking to scavenge anything of value or worth. No one paid any attention to the decrepit form of the Pontiff lying on the ground.
Slowly, careful not to draw the notice of his enemies, the Pontiff gathered what remained of his strength, delving deep into the well of latent power that resided within him. They knew he was strong in the Sight, but they did not suspect he also possessed the Gift. It had never been strong within the Pontiff, and he had never developed this unholy ability. He had never even tried to use it since joining the Monastery almost forty years ago. But the Gift was a part of him, however small.
He gathered the Chaos in minuscule amounts. The scene around him dissolved into darkness as the Pontiff lost the magical ability of second sight—he was channeling all of his energy into another task.
Orath began to pace, anxious to resume the interrogation. Angrily he kicked the huddled form of Scirth, sending the frail body sprawling over the dirt. Scirth cast a hateful glare at the more powerful Minion, then slowly rose to his feet.
“Very well, I will continue.”
He approached the quivering, wrinkled form of the Pontiff, prepared to resume stripping the mind and soul from his captive. But as he reached out with an eager hand he felt something, and paused. “General, he is gathering Chaos.”
Before Orath could react the Pontiff struck. He unleashed the Chaos in a single focused bolt of lethal energy. He directed the attack not at his enemies, for their power was too strong, but at himself. Within his chest his heart exploded, bursting with an audible pop. The Pontiff died instantly, taking his knowledge of the Talismans with him.
Orath leapt forward, seized the withered body of the Pontiff, and lifted him up from the ground. His yellow fingernails biting deep into the dry flesh of the atrophied biceps, he flooded the corpse with the power of Chaos in an effort to reverse the lethal injury. But as great as his magic was, the Minion could not
resurrect the dead. After several seconds the Pontiff’s body began to steam and smoke; the skin cracked and blistered, and foul, putrescent liquid began to seep from his wounds. In disgust Orath let the lifeless body collapse to the ground.
“Scirth,” the leader of the Minions said simply, “you have failed.”
Scirth dropped to his knees, his hands held before him in supplication. “Please, my General. It was not my fault.” His soft, raspy voice now squeaked with terror. “Give me another chance, I beg you …”
Scirth’s pleas died on his lips as Orath placed his hand on the kneeling Minion’s head. A globe of white light enveloped them, briefly blinding the other Minions to the scene. When the light faded Orath stood alone, his hand resting on a heap of dust, which was quickly scattered in the howling wind.
Orath turned his back on what had once been the Minion known as Scirth, pulling his cape close once more about his naked blue body. “Raven, I know you will not fail. Go east. Find the monk that flees with the crown.”
Raven made no reply but simply took to the skies, her shadowy form disappearing into the dark storm clouds that still loomed above the Monastery.
“Destroy this place,” Orath ordered the others. “Raze it to the ground. Nothing must survive; not a single stone of these walls may remain intact. Unleash the Chaos trapped within the walls, scatter the dust of this place to the wind. We will wipe its very memory from existence, just as we will destroy all who oppose our master’s return.
“Then we begin our search for the other Talismans.”
Chapter 35
Cassandra hadn’t slept—truly slept—since the Pontiff had cast her out of the Monastery. Her flight had been constant. She only paused long enough to commandeer a new horse whenever the one she was riding threatened to keel over from exhaustion, or to get more food and water to sustain her on her journey.
Otherwise, she hadn’t dared speak to anyone; not even when she had sensed a fellow Pilgrim in the vicinity. After the betrayal by Jerrod’s faction, she couldn’t be sure a member of the Order would prove her ally.
She checked her horse to a slow trot, trying to conserve its strength. New mounts were easy to acquire in the Southlands. Those who saw her took one look at her sightless eyes, recognized her as part of the Order, and invariably gave her what she demanded without question. But now the Southlands were behind her.
This morning she had passed across the border of the last province that bowed to the Seven Capitals and entered the Frozen East, land of barbarians and savages. The bleak tundra stretched out miles before her, devoid of buildings or habitation. The only people she would meet out here would be nomadic hunter tribes who had no allegiance save that of their chieftain—and no respect or use for the Order or the mission of its emissary.
Here she was truly alone. This horse had to last.
The steady clop-clop-clop of the hooves soothed her, and she let herself drift into a deep meditation as she rode. But meditation was no substitute for what her weary body craved. Her meditation became deeper; the semiconscious state of her trance slid into the warm darkness of true sleep. And Cassandra dreamed.
She was standing in the sands of the Southern Desert, the Monastery under assault from an army of mutated demons. The mantle of the sky was torn asunder, and thousands upon thousands of the twisted creatures poured through the rift, overwhelming her brothers and sisters, devouring them, swallowing the Monastery itself in savage bites that tore the indestructible stone apart piece by piece.
And then the Chaos army swarmed out from the Monastery like a spreading plague, covering the Southlands, killing, ravaging, destroying as they came. The Slayer himself walked among them—a pillar of fire in her dream, a hundred feet tall. He strode across the land, leaving smoldering ruin in his wake. Cities burned and crumbled into lifeless ash at his passing. Chaos had been unleashed upon the mortal world. The second Cataclysm had begun.
The desert disappeared, and Cassandra stood alone in a burning field against the countless thousands of the Slayer’s army, the ancient Crown of the Old Gods perched atop her head. With quiet confidence she raised her hand, and a wave of yellow light poured out from her palm to wash across the burning plain, quenching the Chaos fires. The demon army was swept away in the magical flood, their screams drowned out by the sound of a roaring ocean storm.
Even the Slayer himself could not escape the power of Cassandra’s dream. The golden wave of light circled his ankles and tendrils of luminescence shot up from the glimmering depths. They entwined his legs, the magic binding her enemy in a deadly grip as it crawled up and around his massive limbs. The Fallen One screamed his defiance but was unable to escape, rendered helpless by the power of the Crown that Cassandra had unleashed. The yellow vines of magical light grew thicker and longer, wrapping themselves over his torso and chest. They bound his arms; they twisted around his neck and head until he was barely visible beneath the thick golden cords of living Chaos.
Cassandra clenched her fist and the snake-like tentacles of her spell began to constrict, crushing the very life from the flaming pillar of Chaos that was the Slayer. Her enemy screamed and collapsed to the ground, shaking the earth as he fell.
In triumph, Cassandra raised both her hands above her head, calling upon the ancient magic of the Old Gods contained in the Talisman atop her head. She felt the Chaos gathering, swelling to an unimaginable crescendo—
And then she woke up, jarred from her dream by a slight stumble of her horse on the uneven ground. She could feel the weight of the Crown that had been entrusted to her by the Pontiff in its nondescript sack as it bumped against her thigh with every step of her mount. She could feel it calling to her, urging her to seize the power of Old Magic.
The second Cataclysm was coming, but with the Crown she would have the power to stop it. She could stand against the Slayer, and destroy him once and for all. She could become the champion Jerrod’s prophets had seen—the fate that would have been hers had Rexol been allowed to train her into adulthood!
Cassandra shook her head to dispel the insanity that had momentarily gripped her. Her dream had been no Seer’s vision; these were the fevered imaginings of a wizard. She half imagined she could sense Rexol’s presence in her mind, urging her to such madness; it was as if she were still poisoned by the lingering effects of her old master’s spell over her. The magic of the Crown was beyond her ability to control. The Chaos within the Talisman would consume and destroy her—as it would any mortal who dared to use it.
Even Rexol, for all his knowledge of magic and ancient power, had not been able to control the Talisman. Instead, he had given the Slayer a bridge back to the mortal world. In his quest to become a God, Rexol had set in motion the events heralding a second Cataclysm.
The Pontiff had understood this. He knew the Talisman must be taken to one who would never use it. One with the power to protect it against the Minions. The Guardian. She had seen the Guardian during her recent meditations. Not the exhausted flights of fancy she had just experienced, but true visions. The Guardian was calling to her, speaking to her through her Sight, giving her guidance just as the Pontiff had promised.
East, her visions told her. East across the frozen waste ruled by savage barbarian tribes who would slaughter her on sight. East through the deathly chill of ice and snow that awaited beyond the line of endless winter. East over the impassable mountains towering at the edge of the world. And there the Guardian would be waiting for her, the last of the Old Ones, the only one of the Chaos Spawn who had not joined the Slayer in his war to overthrow the Gods.
Cassandra had sworn to her Pontiff to deliver the crown to the Guardian, and in doing so she would be released from this burden. She would fulfill her oath and free herself from the ever-growing temptation to seize the Talisman’s omnipotent but uncontrollable power … if she survived the journey.
Chapter 36
It had been three weeks since the night of Rexol’s death. Three weeks of constant flight, with only the b
riefest of rests. Jerrod had insisted they avoided the main roads and only stopped at villages long enough to acquire more provisions, and he refused to stay at an inn. Instead they slept in makeshift camps in the woods.
The routes they followed couldn’t even be called roads; most were overgrown trails long abandoned by any respectable travelers. Some, like the one they were on now, seemed to cut right through the thickest parts of wild, untamed forest. The uneven ground and overgrown roots made the horses stumble along the path, and Keegan’s hands and face were covered with cuts and scrapes from low-hanging branches and encroaching shrubbery. Despite all this they were making good time. Though they had seen no hint of their pursuers, Jerrod pushed the pace like a man possessed. Like a fanatic.
Which was exactly what he was. Neither man was much for conversation, but during their endless journey Keegan had realized that much about his traveling companion. He was utterly convinced that Keegan was destined to be the savior of the world. And mad as that might seem, Keegan understood his companion’s unshakable conviction. Jerrod had the Sight, and he had seen Keegan’s future in his visions.
Keegan also had the Sight. He could appreciate how vivid and powerful a vision felt; it burned with an intensity that dwarfed the waking world. It was easy to understand how the visions could have driven the monk to devote his entire life to a single cause despite all opposition.
But Keegan had also seen visions that did not come to pass. He understood that the future was malleable. And through Rexol, he had learned enough about Chaos to understand that what seemed to be so clear and real was often a confusing mess of symbolism, hidden meanings, and obfuscation.