Here people wore clothes that were loose and flowing. They accessorized with long, delicate scarves that fluttered when they walked or wore diaphanous capes and cloaks atop their outfits. Boots were soft worked leather rather than the hard, cured hide Keegan was familiar with. And everywhere he looked Keegan saw bright tones; red, orange, and green were obviously the colors of choice.
The architecture also reflected the influence of Danaan culture. The squat, square edifices common throughout the Southlands were rare here; instead the town was dominated by tall, elegant towers reminiscent of sketches of the Danaan capital that Keegan had seen in the volumes of Rexol’s library. Torian looked less like a city and more like a forest of buildings.
The main thoroughfare was crowded, but no more so than any merchant city in the Southlands. The towers were widely and evenly spaced, creating an orderly grid of broad crisscrossing roads that made moving about the city a simple, almost enjoyable task. And the streets within Torian were, to Keegan’s surprise, remarkably clean. The stench and grime associated with major urban centers was all but absent; the congestion and filth of overcrowding that seemed to be a common trait among the Seven Capitals had not yet settled into Torian’s character.
Keegan was able to take in the look and feel of the city at his leisure, as Jerrod had slowed their pace to a crawl. He wanted Torian’s officials to find them. By now, Khamin Ankha had to know that another wizard had arrived in the town. And, Keegan thought, if Rexol’s old apprentice chose not to approach them—if he chose to keep official channels closed—they could simply venture onward into the Danaan lands.
They were still heading north on the main thoroughfare, which would eventually lead them to the much smaller gates of the northern wall. There, Keegan knew, they would have to pay a toll to cross into the Danaan lands. Likely, the guards would warn them not to stray from the well-defined road.
If they followed the trade route it would eventually lead them to the Danaan town that had sprung up at the intersection of all the trade routes from all the Free Cities, a nameless community created solely for the purpose of exchanging goods between the human and Danaan peoples. There merchants could buy or sell their wares before returning along the trade routes to the Free Cities that led back into the Southlands.
It was common knowledge the Danaan tolerated merchants and visitors in their domain only so long as they stayed on the trade routes. Anyone straying from the designated areas would be sentenced to immediate execution should their transgression be discovered by an Danaan patrol. And yet there were those who dared to leave the trade routes. Explorers trying to locate and map the hidden Danaan cities. Foolish or brave adventurers seeking long-lost treasure rumored to be hidden beneath the thick branches of the North Forest. Emissaries determined to bypass the restrictions of the Danaan monarchy so they could try to establish diplomatic relations with the forbidden kingdom. Very few of these who left the road, for any reason, ever returned alive.
They had already passed the midway point of the city when they were finally greeted by an official presence. A cadre of banner-carrying footmen marched in tight formation through the streets toward them, the crowd parting before their progress. Behind them were several mounted knights, their lances fluttering with the same flags the footmen carried—a single white tower on a deep blue background, the symbol of Lady Beethania, Torian’s current City Lord. Behind the knights rode a man Keegan could only imagine was Khamin Ankha, the most important lord’s mage in Torian.
In general, Keegan had little respect for lord’s mages. Rexol had once told him that they were often far more skilled in political maneuvering than in the wizard’s Gift. Their position was primarily ceremonial; it was rare they could wield magic with anything even approaching the power of a true Chaos mage—or even a village witch or sorcerer.
Keegan had often wondered why those with a true command of Chaos were so rarely found in the position of lord’s mage. Perhaps the nobles feared the spellcasters in their employ would overthrow them if they had any true power. Or perhaps those with the ability to shape and control Chaos would not subject themselves to the employ of another, even one as important as a city lord or king. Keegan knew Rexol would never have sworn fealty to anyone but himself.
He had expected Khamin Ankha to be the exception to the rule. He had, after all, studied under Rexol. However, his first impression reinforced his previous experiences rather than dispelled them. This was a man with only the slightest hint of Chaos in the aura about him.
Despite the many cultural differences between Torian and the Seven Capitals, his uniform of office was remarkably similar to that of the lord’s mages Keegan had seen in the Southlands. He wore heavy purple robes that completely covered his rather ample frame, the tower of Lady Beethania emblazoned prominently on his chest. His hair was neatly combed, his body almost devoid of tattoos or piercings. His only visible ornamentations were a pair of small earrings, a few necklaces dangling down, and several rings on his plump, fleshy fingers. His skin had a pale hue and seemed to gleam with a strange sheen, though that might merely have been the sun reflecting off the rivulets of sweat running down the fat man’s brow.
The man looked vaguely familiar to Keegan, even though he was sure they had never met. After a few moments, he dismissed it as unimportant. The man looked like any other lord’s mage in any of a dozen courts in the Southlands. Why shouldn’t his appearance seem vaguely familiar?
As the company drew close the footmen stepped to either side to form twin lines along the edges of the road. They raised their banners in unison as the knights pranced their mounts through the line, then assumed their places beside the footmen. Next came the lord’s mage, slowly riding forward to greet them. The pomp and ceremony of his arrival left a bitter taste in Keegan’s mouth.
“I am Khamin Ankha,” the man proclaimed in a booming voice that surely carried several blocks in every direction, “I welcome you to the Free City of Torian. I am honored to extend an invitation to you and your companions on behalf of Lady Beethania. I have come to escort you to her mansion.”
“I am Jerrod, and this is Keegan—a student of Rexol, your former master,” Jerrod replied in a much lower voice.
“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show, Khamin,” he added. “We certainly did our part to let you know we were coming.”
“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 th
e 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.
Chapter 42
“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,” Kha
min 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.