The Slayer. Ancient enemy of the Gods. A champion who, through the Talismans, became immortal.
Emboldened by the heady rush of witchroot and the Chaos all around him, Keegan reached out to touch the other’s mind, completing the bridge between their two worlds. Instantly, he was buried under a tidal wave of images: the memories, dreams, and visions of seven hundred years of existence.
Keegan recoiled in terror, his mortal consciousness unable to process the overload of information. The connection was broken as Keegan’s awareness fled down into the depths of the Chaos Sea to escape the horrors he had witnessed in the other’s mind. For a moment the other presence flailed about, trying to grasp onto the unexpected intruder. Then it was gone, swept away by the currents of Chaos.
His psyche reeling, Keegan sank deeper and deeper into the Chaos Sea, drowning beneath the weight of all he had seen. In an act of desperate self-preservation, he began to cast aside the images, purging them from his awareness before they dragged him so far down that his own identity would be washed away forever.
Just before he reached the bottom of the infinite ocean of Chaos, he managed to regain some semblance of control. With an act of monumental will, he began to claw his way back to the surface until he finally broke free, his sanity battered but intact.
Most of what he had seen in the Slayer’s mind was gone, but he had clung to a few precious pieces of what he had seen. The Pontiff was dead, the Monastery in ruins—the work of powerful Minions the Slayer had sent through to the mortal world. They were seeking the Talismans—the Crown, the Ring, the Sword—that had transformed Daemron into a God.
There was something else Keegan clung to, something he had sensed an instant before the connection had been broken: fear. The Slayer was afraid of him. In their brief moment of contact the God had sensed Keegan’s power, and he knew the mortal could destroy him.
And Keegan knew the Minions wouldn’t just be hunting the Talismans, now … they’d be hunting him, too.
Gil stared out his window, listening. His home was on the outskirts of town, but that didn’t stop the wind from carrying the laughter and voices to his window. The people of Praeton were celebrating; the rebuilt Singing Dragon had finally opened for business again.
For many days the mystery of the strange men who’d wrecked the tavern and their relationship with Scythe and Norr, who had vanished the night of their arrival, had been the sole topic of conversation among the citizenry. Friends and neighbors had spoken of nothing else as they came in a steady stream to keep Gil company while he recovered from the terrible injuries to his legs. Though no answers were forthcoming, wild speculation ran rampant. Gil himself even became something of a local hero for those first few weeks, credited with a far greater role in events of that night by virtue of his wounds.
But as the days progressed to weeks the visitors to Gil’s room became less frequent. Life went on; there was business to take care of. Praeton had grown weary of the topic. Talk turned to crops and local concerns. Money was raised to repair the Singing Dragon. Bit by bit Praeton was putting the tragedy behind them. The town’s wounds were healing.
As were Gil’s own—though far less quickly. He was still an invalid, unable to even leave his bed without help, barely even able to roll onto his side without passing out from the jolts of pain shooting up from his legs and ripping through his entire body. His wife cared for him constantly, though she slept in her own bed because of his injuries. But his visitors became less frequent and stayed for briefer periods, as if seeing him like this was an unwanted reminder of events best forgotten.
Gil understood their attitude. There was a world beyond his bedroom window that hadn’t stopped; a world he was no longer part of. His friends and neighbors had to get on with the business of living. But understanding did little to quell the bitter resentment welling up as he heard the joyous shouts and pealing laughter from the Singing Dragon wafting down the street.
He stared wistfully out the window at the darkness beyond. The lamps hung out in windowsills to guide folk home cast strange shadows on the deserted streets. It would be many hours before people returned to their homes. Perhaps one or two would stop by tonight, drunkenly pounding on the door until Gil’s wife roused herself and let them in. More than likely they would arrive late tomorrow morning, hung over and eager to regale him with stories of the evening’s events.
Tonight Gil had resigned himself to an evening alone, staring out the window at the shadows cast by the lanterns.
Suddenly one of the shadows moved. For a second Gil thought the shadow was that of a man—a man too drunk to stand, for he crawled along the street on all fours. Not crawled, Gil realized as a cold finger touched his heart, scuttled. Like some horrible human spider.
He blinked and the shadow was enveloped by the darkness. But he could sense it was still there. Afraid even to breathe lest he reveal himself, Gil peered into the night, trying to pierce its black veil. The shadow moved again, but now there were two. Two ghastly inhuman silhouettes scuttling through the streets of Praeton on clawed appendages, noses pressed low to the ground, snuffling like hounds on a scent.
One of the shadows paused, tilted its head back, and gave a screeching howl of evil triumph. The cry rose up on the wind, borne away to the sky—and then the creatures vanished again into the night and Gil felt a cold fist release itself from around his soul.
They hadn’t come for him; the monsters were after other prey. And he couldn’t help but feel pity for whoever the twisted, crawling twins were hunting.
Chapter 46
They had fallen in with a madman. There was no other explanation Scythe could come up with. She should have expected as much from a heretic. She didn’t know much about the Order, but she knew they had been a power in the Southlands for centuries. Anyone desperate enough to openly defy them was dangerously unstable. And only a madman or a fool would have led them into the North Forest, far beyond the forbidden borders of Danaan territory, and then stopped to set up camp.
That was exactly what the monk had done. He called himself Jerrod. The young wizard with them, the one who had saved them by raining fire down on the city, was Keegan. More than this she didn’t know.
Jerrod rarely bothered to speak with either her or Norr, and she wasn’t eager to engage him in any sort of conversation, either. She didn’t trust the blind monk, didn’t like the way he was always tense and alert, always poised on the verge of violent action. She had seen such men before, trained bodyguards of important nobles, men willing to sacrifice their own lives for the sake of the one they protected without hesitation or remorse. Scythe couldn’t understand such fanaticism, though the way Jerrod always hovered close to Keegan’s inert body left little doubt as to who his devotion was directed toward.
He watched her constantly. Not with his useless eyes, but with that damnable second sight. She felt herself being studied everywhere she went; there was no escape from his vigilance. Even in the dark she could feel his invisible gaze pressing down on her, suspicious and wary. Scythe hated being under constant scrutiny.
Part of her wanted to ask him what he had done to get himself declared a heretic by his own Order, but if she asked it would mean she cared. And she didn’t want to give a damn about these men—not even the still-unconscious wizard. It had been three days and he still hadn’t woken up yet, though sometimes he tossed and turned or cried out.
“Dreams,” Jerrod had said once when Norr had asked about the outbursts. “He has visions. Keegan is a true prophet.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she doubted it could be good.
Unlike her, Norr didn’t seem to be the least bit troubled by their companions. It was as if her lover had succumbed to some strange insanity of his own, allowing himself to be guided by some ancient, unbreakable custom of a people and culture he had long since abandoned for the Southlands. For reasons she couldn’t understand, Norr was determined to stay by Keegan’s side wherever he went. And Scythe was just along for the rid
e.
She could have left them that first night in Torian, but she wasn’t about to turn her back on Norr. Even as strange as he was acting, she still loved him. So together they had followed along.
They had fled the square, Jerrod leading them through the streets while the quenching rains of the Pilgrims doused the city and extinguished the blue flames ravaging the buildings and towers. They had gone straight to the north gate, not even stopping long enough to grab clothes to cover the men’s naked bodies.
They had encountered no resistance at all. The city guard had either fled in panic when the storm began, or were off in other parts of the city fighting the fires that threatened to consume all of Torian. The gates were open and unguarded. They had passed through them onto the trade route, still heading due north. Once they passed the borders of the Danaan lands, Jerrod had veered from the path.
She should have objected right then, but at that point she still hadn’t realized the man leading them was completely mad. She had expected him to double back to the south at that point; within a few hours they would be back into the relative safety of the human lands. Even that short journey through the forest was risky, but it would have been worth it to escape Torian.
However, their leader hadn’t doubled back. He had pressed farther and farther into the forest until they found a small clearing. He had set the unconscious wizard gently on the ground, and laid the strange wizard’s staff beside him. And then he had proceeded to set up camp.
By the time Scythe realized he had no intention of leaving the forest it was too late. She was city born and bred; there was no chance of her finding her way back alone through the woods. And Norr had expressed no desire to abandon their new companions and turn back.
At least Jerrod had tended to her lover’s wounds once they stopped. Scythe had learned much about the ways of medicine from Methodis but she was unfamiliar with the foul-smelling poultices he’d fashioned from scavenged roots and fauna around their campsite. He’d applied them to Norr’s injuries, and almost instantly the swelling went down and his bruises faded. Scythe suspected there was some strange magic underneath the simple folk cures.
She was grateful Norr’s pain had been eased, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Jerrod’s ministrations had other effects as well. Norr didn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that for the last three days they had just been sitting here, waiting for a Danaan patrol to find them and kill them for the trespassers they were. It certainly bothered Scythe.
For three days she had waited, and for three days Jerrod had told her nothing. He had spent most of his time tending to Keegan, though it was obvious he could do little more than try to make his comatose patient comfortable.
Scythe tried not to think about Keegan too much. She knew it was his spell that had broken Gil’s leg; but whenever she noticed him lying on the ground it was hard to imagine him as a powerful wizard. He looked so frail and weak, part of her actually felt sorry for him.
She suspected that once the wizard regained consciousness they would move on, but who knew how long that might take? They had already spent too much time camped in a place where the penalty for discovery was death. She had already saved Jerrod and Keegan once; they weren’t her responsibility anymore. Steeling her resolve, she decided she wasn’t willing to wait any longer.
“Norr,” she said, rising to her feet. “We have to go. If we stay here, the Danaan will kill us.”
“I won’t abandon Keegan,” he replied, glancing from her down to the helpless wizard. “Please, Scythe. Don’t force me to choose between my debt to him and my love for you.”
She sighed. How could she argue with that? She turned her attention to Jerrod instead, hoping to have better luck.
“Is there some plan you’re not sharing with the rest of us? Is there some reason you led us here?”
“The Pilgrims are still searching for us,” he explained calmly. “There are enchantments in these woods that obscure and confuse my Sight—and theirs. Plus, the newly appointed Torian officials will be reluctant to send troops into the forests, knowing the severe penalties awaiting trespassers.”
A logical explanation, though it ignored the fact that the Danaan were just as likely to kill them as the Pilgrims or the Torian patrols.
“But why are we just sitting here in one spot? Wouldn’t it be safer if we at least move around?”
The monk tilted his head in Keegan’s direction. “His condition is growing worse. I have done what I can to offset the damage of the witchroot, but I can only do so much. He is still too sick to move, thanks to you. “
Scythe glared at him, but wouldn’t rise to the bait. She refused to feel any guilt over the young man’s condition. If she hadn’t done what she had done, none of them would be alive now. Or so she kept telling herself each night whenever she heard him cry out in the darkness.
“The North Forest is forbidden,” she pointed out in case he wasn’t aware of the blatantly obvious. She was no expert on the Danaan, but what she was saying was common knowledge among all the human lands. “If we wait here much longer they will find us. And then they will kill us!”
“I won’t move him,” Jerrod replied. “Not until he returns to this world.”
“Returns to this world?” Norr asked. “What does that mean?”
“His mind is adrift in the Sea of Fire. The minds of those who imbibe too deeply of the witchroot can be lost forever in the Chaos.
“But Keegan is not like other men.” The monk took a deep breath, as if to convince himself that what he was about to say next was in fact true. “He is strong in the Gift, maybe stronger than any wizard since the time of the Cataclysm. His mind might still find its way back to the mortal world, in time.”
“Then we will wait as long as it takes,” Norr said, placing a reassuring hand on the monk’s bare shoulder.
It was obvious they weren’t going anywhere yet. Reluctantly Scythe sat back down, silently cursing the events that had brought her and Norr to this place.
“I found the plants you wanted,” Norr said, handing a fistful of leaves to Jerrod as he crouched over the still-inert form of the young wizard.
Jerrod took them without a word. He gently opened the young man’s mouth and placed a single leaf beneath his tongue. “These will help his fever break,” he explained. “But they won’t bring his mind back to us.”
“You care greatly for him,” Norr noted.
“He is special. He is the savior of the world.”
From across the camp Scythe snorted. “Bet you didn’t know that when you vowed your life to him,” she said to her lover, half joking and half bitter.
“I do not understand,” the barbarian said to Jerrod, refusing to acknowledge her snide comment. “The ways of your Order are strange to me. I would know of your history … and of what is to come.”
“Even among the Southlands few know the real history,” Jerrod admitted. “The Order has preserved the truth within the Monastery, but beyond its walls much has been forgotten. Legend and myth blend with history, and truth and fiction are not easily separated anymore.”
“Sounds like you’re avoiding the question,” Scythe accused him, having made her way over from the other side of the camp. She wrapped her arms around Norr’s massive waist. At least, she tried to. Her hands only reached three-quarters of the way around his girth. Without even thinking about it the big man reached his arm down and around her protectively, drawing her small body up close against his.
“Norr’s vowed to help your so-called savior,” she continued. “And where he goes I go. The least you can do is tell us what we’re getting into. Or is it forbidden to share your knowledge with an Islander and an Eastern savage?”
“The truth is forbidden to no one,” Jerrod replied calmly. “The story of the True Gods is the history of all the peoples: Southlanders, Islanders, the Free Cities, the tribes of the East, and even the Danaan.”
He was silent for several seconds, gathering his thoughts. When he b
egan to speak his voice was deep and heavy, as if it held power beyond the mere words.
“The mortal world, like all things—all life, all magic, even the Gods themselves—was born from Chaos. The Gods, the True Gods, shaped and worked the fires of the Chaos Sea to create an oasis within the ever-churning flames. They bounded the north of the world with an impenetrable forest to keep the terrible power of Chaos from drowning the mortal shores. To the east they set an impassable range of mountains; to the south, a vast desert of infinite sand. On the western shore they poured forth an ocean of unfathomable depths, its cool waters quelling the blazing waves battering the tranquil island floating in the infinite maelstrom of space and time.
“In the firmament above they set the sky, the stars, the sun, and the moon. Using the magic of Chaos they breathed divine life into the cold foundation of the earth, and a multitude of creatures sprang forth to cover all the land. And the Gods themselves dwelled among the mortal men and women who praised them for the paradise they had created, while all around the mortal world the Chaos raged, seeking to devour what they had made.
“For though the essence of life and creation is Chaos, the essence of Chaos is destruction and death. And the universe rebelled against what the Gods had wrought. Terrible monsters—dragons, ogres, all the Chaos Spawn—rose up from the depths of fire. They climbed the mountains, they swam the ocean, they crossed the desert and stormed through the forest, leaving only death and destruction in their wake. The Gods turned their divine power against the invaders wherever they found them, but the monsters were legion, and even an Immortal cannot easily defeat a creature birthed from the Sea of Fire.
“The magic unleashed in these terrible wars ravaged the land, and with each battle the echo of the Gods’ own actions brought forth more Chaos Spawn to oppose them. The Gods knew they could no longer dwell within the mortal world, for they themselves were beings of Chaos and it was their very presence that gave birth to the monstrous creatures that crawled forth from the burning sea.