“Yet they couldn’t leave their children defenseless, and so a champion was chosen from among the mortals: Daemron, a great warrior-king who would stand against the Chaos Spawn. The Gods forged artifacts of great power and presented these gifts to their champion to aid him in his battles: a Crown to give him wisdom and foresight; a Sword to give him strength and courage; and a Ring to give him the power of magic—the ability to channel Chaos itself and shape it to his will.
“Armed with the Talismans, Daemron led his army of followers against the invaders from the Chaos Sea, slaughtering the enemy and driving them back into the flames. Trolls and ogres and dragons alike fell beneath his enchanted blade, and in honor of his victories the people of the world gave Daemron the title of the Slayer.
“But with unchallenged power comes unbridled ambition. With the enemy vanquished, the Slayer declared himself ruler of all the mortal world, a king over all other kings. Those who did not bow down to him felt the fury of his wrath, and destruction and death spread once more across the land.
“As long as he possessed the Talismans the Slayer commanded all the power of the Immortals, and none could oppose him; none save the Immortals themselves. And so the Gods returned to our world to wage war against the Slayer. But the enemy did not stand alone; many flocked to his banner. Among his horde were a new generation of Chaos Spawn, united with him in their hatred of the Gods, following the one who had once been the scourge of their monstrous kind.
“In the final battle the full fury of Chaos was unleashed upon the world in a fiery Cataclysm. Blazing meteors rained down from the sky; the ground shook and heaved and erupted in volcanoes spewing burning death. Cities crumbled to dust, kingdoms were reduced to ash and cinders, and the earth itself was rent asunder.
“In the end the Slayer finally fell, unable to oppose the combined will of the True Gods. Stripped of the Talismans, he fled the mortal world to a blighted land of his own creation hidden somewhere in the Sea of Fire.”
“We have a similar tale among my people,” Norr interrupted. “It talks of Daemron, the warrior-king. It tells of a great Sword he used to smite his enemies. But in our legend he became proud and boastful, and challenged the Gods. They say he fell in the Long Battle that blighted the earth, and the Sword was lost.
“It is said it will reappear in the hands of a chosen warrior,” Norr added thoughtfully. “One who will unite our people and lead them to victory when the time of the final battle comes.”
“The Talismans were lost,” Jerrod agreed. “The Gods scattered them after the battle, lest they give rise to another Slayer.”
“Why not just destroy them?” Scythe asked, trying to bring some logic into the conversation.
“They were forged from the essence of the Immortals themselves,” Jerrod replied without hesitation. “Even the Gods did not have the power to destroy them. But they were dangerous: Their power was too great for any mortal to control. So they were hidden away.”
The monk paused briefly before continuing, as if trying to regain the thread of his obviously well-rehearsed tale after Norr’s distraction. “After the battle, the Gods wept and their tears cooled the flames of the Cataclysm. But though the Slayer was banished, there was no peace in the land. Once again the Chaos Spawn walked the earth, monstrous refugees from the Slayer's army who had escaped the spell banishing their liege. Combining their energies the Immortals cast a spell over the world, causing the creatures to fall into a deep sleep, binding them far beneath the surface of the earth.
“Yet even the Gods cannot wield such magic without paying a terrible price. Wounded from the war with the Slayer and weakened by the spell of eternal hibernation, the Gods began to fade away. Their essence was spent; all that they were was returning to the Chaos from which they were born.
“A God dies slowly, and before their passing the creators had one last gift to give—a Legacy to endure beyond their own passing. As their last act the Gods sacrificed themselves to create a shield over the mortal world, an impenetrable barrier to keep out the Chaos Spawn and prevent the Slayer from ever returning.
“Through their ultimate sacrifice the mortal world was saved. Its people spread across the surface. New cities were built, new kingdoms were formed, the races as we know them today came into being.
“Some among the mortals sought to preserve the sanctity and memory of the True Gods: The Order dedicated itself to protecting their Legacy. But for most men and women the importance of their daily, mundane lives far exceeded the great events of a generation … then a century … and then a millennium ago.
“The horrors of the Cataclysm faded into legend, and the name of the Slayer slipped from the minds of the common folk. Over the centuries the True Gods were supplanted by new deities created to satisfy the needs and desires of the people who worked and toiled and ruled on this island forever floating in the fires of the Chaos Sea. The people abandoned the True Gods, and only we of the Order remembered their history.”
Scythe had heard many similar stories during her time in the Southlands. Some of the specifics were different, but Jerrod’s tale was basically the same as every other creation myth she had heard. Vague in the details, and set long enough ago that the facts were difficult to disprove. But she wasn’t going to be satisfied with the recounting of a mere legend.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she pressed. “What does this have to do with your friend?”
“The Legacy is weakening,” Jerrod explained. “The barrier that holds back the Slayer and the descendants of those who fled with him is growing thin. In their exile, they have become twisted abominations—like the Chaos Spawn that once ravaged the land. And when the Legacy finally crumbles, the Slayer will return and unleash his unholy army so that he can once more claim rule over the mortal world.
“Only a wizard with the power of true Chaos in his blood can drive the hordes back when they come. In my visions I have seen a champion who can save us all. One strong enough to defeat the Slayer and his army.”
“Him?” Scythe asked, raising an eyebrow and pointing at the frail young man lying naked and unconscious on the ground.
“You saw what he did in Torian,” the monk reminded her. “Only the wizards of old had that kind of power.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded, surrendering the point but still unwilling to fully accept Jerrod’s story. “But there’s one thing I still can’t understand.
“Back in Torian they said you were heretics. If Keegan is the savior of the world, why is the Order trying to kill him?”
Jerrod’s face darkened, though she wasn’t sure if his anger was directed at her. “There are some who do not believe in his destiny. Some, like the Pontiff, refuse to accept that the Legacy is crumbling. They have chosen to cling to it for as long as they can, ignoring the inevitable.
“The Order is afraid of Keegan. They see him as a threat, they fear the power he wields, they believe his magic will weaken the Legacy and hasten its destruction. The Pontiff and those who blindly follow him imagine Keegan as a destroyer rather than a savior.”
“I don’t understand,” Norr said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I thought the Order was made up of prophets. How can they ignore these visions you have told us about?”
“That’s the problem with visions,” Scythe said, trying not to sound too smug. “They tend to be open to interpretation. People can twist them around however they want.”
Jerrod didn’t allow her remarks to upset him, much to Scythe’s dismay. Obviously he was used to dealing with skeptics.
“Believe what you will,” the monk told them. “But I have told you everything I know. That is more than the Order could ever say. The Pontiff has hidden much of what he has known even from his own followers. He believes the only way to keep the Legacy safe is to guard its very existence from the general population. He seeks to manipulate and control the governments of the Southlands through his agents, but he would never dare to share the full extent of his
knowledge with them for fear of how they might react.”
“If the Pontiff keeps everything so secret”—Scythe pounced, sensing another logical flaw in his tale—“then how did you learn all this?”
“Some of what I knew was common knowledge among the Order,” Jerrod explained. “Some I learned from my visions and the visions of those who share my belief. Much was passed down to me by Ezra, my predecessor and the one who first understood the need to find our champion.
“The rest I have learned through years of study and research. The Order has tried to keep its secrets by gathering any and all texts that make mention of this in their great library. In the Southlands they have largely succeeded, but in the Free Cities there are still manuscripts to be found that contain the truth.
“I have devoted my life to finding Keegan and preparing him for his destiny,” Jerrod added. “But if he dies—or if his mind does not come back to us—then all hope is lost.”
The monk turned back to tend to Keegan; he had obviously finished speaking for the time being. Scythe didn’t say anything, but waited for Norr’s reaction. Unfortunately, it was what she expected.
“We will help you in this, Jerrod,” the barbarian vowed. “I have sworn my life into the service of Keegan until the debt I owe him is repaid. Now I offer my life to your champion and his cause.”
Jerrod didn’t bother to glance up from his worried examination of the young wizard, but he did say, “Your help is welcomed, brother.”
Scythe slipped herself free from Norr’s grasp, disgusted with them both.
Chapter 47
Floating in the blue flames of the Sea of Fire, Keegan could sense the mortal world. Someone on the other side of the Legacy was reaching out to him, willing him to return.
Jerrod.
But if he did come back to the mortal world, Keegan knew he would have to face the Minions of the Slayer. They were searching for him; eventually they would find him. And he didn’t have the strength to stand against them. Not yet.
The Talismans made Daemron a God. They can do the same for me.
He could still sense the Crown, though its power was faint and distant. But as his mind drifted in the fiery currents, he sensed another Talisman—brighter, stronger, closer. Like the voice of Jerrod, it, too, was calling to him. Its power shone like a beacon, showing him the way to return.
It was for this—not Jerrod—that he began the long journey back. And as he did so, Keegan sent out a call of his own.
Vaaler stopped so suddenly that Naria, his second in command, nearly walked into his back and knocked him from the thick, intertwining branches the patrol was using to traverse the sector.
“What is it?” she asked, instinctively slinging her bow off her shoulder and notching an arrow in one fluid motion. The other half a dozen archers under Vaaler’s command did the same, scanning the leaves above and the ground twenty feet below for signs of danger.
“Did you hear something?” Vaaler asked.
“I heard nothing. What was it?”
“It sounds crazy,” Vaaler mumbled, half to himself, “but I think I heard someone whispering my name.”
He saw Naria glance back at the others, but they returned only puzzled glances and perplexed shrugs.
“We heard nothing, my Captain.”
“Perhaps I imagined it,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Just because none of us heard it, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there,” Naria insisted.
The prince gave her a hint of a smile, grateful for her show of support.
“Let’s go check it out,” he said. “This way. Keep your bows at the ready, but nobody fire until I give the word.”
The patrol set off again, veering to the southwest, heading in the general direction of Torian.
Drake burst into the Queen’s chambers without even knocking. He had run the full length of the royal grounds upon receiving her summons, its short but terrifying message spurring him on: Vaaler is lost to us.
“Tell me where my son is,” the Queen said as soon as he had closed the door behind him.
Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it still had the timbre of royal command. Drake hesitated before replying, momentarily taken aback by his Queen’s ghastly appearance as she sat propped up by pillows in her bed, too weak even to stand. The servants had warned him of her condition, but they could not have prepared him for this.
“He is on patrol, my Queen.”
Rianna Avareen had not left her room in a fortnight. Not since she began the fast. The council awaited her summons, but she had not once graced them with her presence. Even Drake had not seen her these past weeks, banished from her bedroom as she had banished all her worldly pleasures. Despite his reservations about her plan, Drake had wordlessly bowed to his Monarch’s will.
What objection could he make, when there was nothing he could do? Before she sent him away, the Queen would wake screaming and trembling each night and collapse sobbing uncontrollably in Drake’s protective but powerless arms. But the visions came whether he was there or not, and nothing he could do or say would take away her terror and anguish. Finally she had sent him from her bed, and he had not objected—partly because she was the Queen, and partly because he could do nothing for her.
She was convinced her ties to the physical world were obscuring her Sight, and after Drake’s banishment she had vowed to do whatever it took to free herself from her earthly bonds. After the first week the servants had begged him to return to her side, convinced he could somehow reason with her. They pleaded with him to defy their own Queen’s orders. They feared she was dying. Now that he saw her in person, Drake feared they were right.
Rianna’s face was drawn and haggard, her beauty all but invisible beneath a grim mask of exhaustion and starvation. Her skin was sallow and sunken, her eyes bloodshot and dark, her lips dry and cracked. Her long, silken hair was a tangled mass of knots and clumps hanging down past the protruding bones of her shoulders, far more prominent than they should have been. The fast had taken a much greater toll than was possible in such a short time. Something else was at work, devouring her from the inside, consuming her until only this sickly, scrawny shell remained of the woman he loved.
The Queen couldn’t sleep and she refused to eat, hoping to purify her body so the Chaos in her blood might gain strength. So her visions might have some meaning, some purpose or clue to guide her will so she might spare her people from the Cataclysm she had foreseen. And her desperate vigil was rapidly destroying her.
“Bring him to me,” the Queen whispered, lying back in her bed, as if even the effort of sitting upright was too much for her now. “Bring him to me quickly. I … I must see my son.”
Drake ushered the servants out with a nod of his head. Alone, he knelt beside the Queen’s bed and took her frail hand. The skin was dry and thin as paper, he could see the blue blood of her veins through the surface; he could trace the outline of each delicate bone in her slender fingers.
“Rianna,” he whispered, “my love—we are alone. Please, tell me what has happened.”
She turned her head on the pillow, her eyes glazing with tears.
“Another vision,” she whispered. “Vaaler. He walks with the Destroyer of Worlds in our forest. They laugh together, they call each other friend. Vaaler leads the Destroyer here, and together they will devour our city.”
Drake shook his head. “No, my love. You are weak. Exhausted. Your Sight is weary from overuse. You have made a mistake. Vaaler would never betray his people. He would never betray you.”
She nodded ever so slightly. She wanted to believe, she wanted to take some solace in the words of her consort. Yet in her eyes Drake could see that she knew his soothing assurances were nothing but false promises against the undeniable truth of her own vision.
“Where is he?” she asked again, the words escaping as little more than a sigh from her parched lips.
“He is on patrol,” Drake said for the second time, reaching out to
caress her cheek. She flinched away, as if the touch of his hand scorched her—but it was Drake who felt heat, radiating from her skin as if it were on fire.
“I will send word to him immediately,” he assured the Queen. “I will tell him to return to your side.”
Again she nodded, comforted by his promise. Then with seemingly great effort, she closed her weary eyes and turned her head away from him. He held her burning hand while her breathing slipped into the soft, shallow rhythm of a light doze. He waited, bracing himself in case Rianna suddenly awoke screaming from her dreams.
But she didn’t stir. When he felt her drift into a deep and restful slumber he gently laid her hand on the bed and slipped out to tell the servants not to wake her.
For the first time in many weeks she was sleeping peacefully. Drake tried to convince himself it was a good sign. Either that, or she had fallen into an exhaustion and despair so deep even the horrors of the visions could no longer affect her.
Chapter 48
Keegan woke with a gasp. The sensation of returning to his mortal shell was like the shock of plunging into an icy river. The first thing he noticed was how physically weak his body felt: exhausted, drained. But his spirit felt strong. He tingled with energy and power. The witchroot was still coursing through his veins; it would be weeks before it all passed from his body. And there was something else. The very air of this place was thick with magic. He could almost see the ancient spells, enchantments woven many centuries ago but still strong enough to permeate the air around him.
He was acutely aware of his surroundings. They were in a forest: a thick, dense wood with a canopy so lush it blocked out any view of the sky above. He was lying in a small clearing, maybe twenty feet across. Jerrod hovered anxiously over him, drawn by the sudden signs of life. For some reason, the monk was naked.