Children of Fire

  A flash flood spawned by the magical deluge was sweeping through the dunes; a great wall of water crashing in to obliterate him. Instinctively the old monk cast up a shield around his body, deflecting the Chaos-driven waves and temporarily holding them at bay.

  Cocooned in a shell of protective magic as the wind and waves surged around him, Ezra had a brief hope he might survive the deadly storm of magic. Then a sizzling bolt of blue lightning arced down, sundering the protective shell and engulfing the old man. In a single, brilliant flash his body was reduced to a pile of ashes that were swept away by the raging floodwaters.

  The Pontiff crawled across the cellar floor to the far corner of the room, his body drained by his ordeal. The Crown lay on its side in the corner where he had cast it away, undamaged. He reached out and clasped the Talisman with a weary hand, only then recognizing the true toll that had been extracted from him. His knuckles were gnarled and swollen, his fingers twisted and bent. His skin was creased with wrinkles and covered with dark brown spots.

  Still prone, he reached up with one hand to feel his face, the other clenched tightly around the Crown. His cheeks were sunken and leathered, as if he had aged twenty years during the course of the spell—the cost of magic.

  With a heavy sigh and a great effort he rose to his feet, the Crown clutched feebly at his side. The body is only a shell, he told himself, moving with deliberate, plodding steps as he made his way back to the pedestal. He placed the Crown on top, knowing the Talisman could never safely be used again—not with the Legacy so frail and the Slayer lurking on the other side.

  He had failed in his mission; he had not had time to pierce the walls within Ezra’s mind before he had been forced to break off the spell. But all was not lost. Ezra was dead; Nazir had felt the power of the storm that had formed when the Slayer had tried to force his way into the mortal world. He knew the old monk lacked the might to stand against such power. And without their leader, his heretical followers would be in disarray and confusion. Easy prey for Yasmin and the rest of the Inquisitors. With luck, the followers of the Burning Savior would be no more by the end of the year.

  The Pontiff repressed an involuntary shudder, knowing his efforts to discover the identity of Ezra’s followers had nearly opened the door for their ancient enemy to return. The Legacy was weaker and more fragile than he had feared. But he had sensed something else before aborting the spell, something that gave him hope. There was desperation in the alien mind that had brushed up against his.

  The Slayer, their supposedly immortal enemy, was dying. All they had to do was protect the Legacy and wait, and victory was theirs.

  The Pontiff used his key to unlock the door and exit the inner sanctum. Once outside he locked the steel door behind him, his hands trembling with a slight palsy he had not possessed only minutes ago.

  He clenched his suddenly aged and arthritic fist around the key. The body is only a shell, he repeated. True strength comes from the mind and spirit.

  Channeling all the power and energy of his will into his clenched fist he crushed the iron key into a twisted lump of useless metal, forever sealing the Crown behind the iron door and its impassable warding runes.

  Chapter 6

  It had been nearly a full day since Jerrod had passed any sign of civilization. Though traveling by foot, he moved with surprising speed, his long, steady strides drawing him ever closer to his ultimate destination. Those passing him on his journey—had there been any on the road to see him—would have found him unremarkable at first glance: a man in his early twenties of average height and fit build. His short, dark hair and pale skin were predominant features among many in the Southlands. His clothes were plain and simple: a light brown cloak, dark brown breeches, a sandy tunic, and a pair of calf-high leather boots. It was only his eyes that revealed he was anything more than a common villager upon the road: twin orbs of milky gray, completely dead to the world.

  As a Pilgrim of the Order he was capable of far greater exertions than ordinary travelers, but he had pushed himself to his limits on this journey, driven by the news of Ezra’s death. Four days at such a grueling pace had left him weary in both body and spirit. Now, however, his trip was nearing an end. The sun had reached its zenith in the sky and he was finally rewarded with his first sight of the wizard’s manse—or rather, his first awareness of it, for sight was no true description of how his altered senses perceived the world.

  The manse was a large, sprawling building of white stone, the spire of its central tower peeking up from behind the barren, rocky hills common to the region. There were no other buildings around; the nearest village was a full day’s ride to the north. Like most Chaos wielders, Rexol—the owner of the manse—lived in isolation. Unlike others of his kind, however, his exile was self-imposed, a conscious effort to distance himself from the noble Houses that had turned their back on him twenty years ago during the Purge.

  Yet as he had come to know Rexol, Jerrod began to understand that there was another reason he chose to live here. The deep Southlands were the frontier, the most remote edge of the kingdoms that had united over four hundred years ago under the rule of the Seven Capitals. The great cities that made up the Capitals themselves lay far to the north and west, in the lush fields of the midlands or along the coast of the Endless Sea. Other settlements had sprung up along the fertile banks of the many rivers that crossed the land, snaking from the mountains of the east to drain into the ocean to the west. But none of them ran this far south.

  Here the land still echoed the uninhabitable realm of the desert. Water was scarce, the soil made up of scrabbling stone ill suited to farming. The few trees that pushed up from the raw earth were stunted and deformed. With plenty of good farmland only a few days’ ride to the north, nobody was foolish enough to try to survive here. Nobody but one touched by the arrogant madness of Chaos.

  By choosing to live here on the edges of the Southern Desert the mage was making a statement, one simultaneously echoing the Order’s power while defying the Pontiff’s authority. Rexol’s dwelling dominated the horizon, looming above the barren hills in the same way the great Monastery loomed over the desert landscape a hundred leagues to the south. However, the stark white walls of the tower rising up from the center of the wizard’s manse stood in sharp contrast with the black walls of the Order’s ancient fortress.

  Jerrod was drawing close now. He could see the high wrought-iron fence encircling the property grounds, constructed in the fashion of the wealthy noble estates far to the north.

  To the naked eye, Rexol’s manse was surrounded by a beautiful, self-sustaining garden. The estate was a flourishing paradise any lord within the Seven Capitals would be proud to have cultivated in his manor yard. The three-story marble tower was encircled by a verdant garden extending out twenty yards to the very edges of the iron fence. Lush grass covered the earth like a fertile carpet. Twenty-foot oaks lined the perimeter, their heavy, leaf-laden branches extending out over the railing to cast cool shade over the brown and barren dirt on the other side.

  A dozen small ponds dotted the landscape, the three largest remarkable for the cascading fountains of crystal water arcing up from their centers. Lacing out from the ponds a web of small, babbling irrigation streams wove its way throughout the numerous groves of fruit trees and the abundant vegetable gardens scattered about the grounds.

  But Jerrod was one of the Order, and his vision allowed him to recognize the oasis for what it truly was. The illusion of fertility amid the lifeless plains was shattered by the eerie emptiness of the garden, a smothering silence broken only by the soft whisper of the ever-running brooks. Absent was the buzz of insects, the chatter of birds, or any other sign of life. For all its beauty the garden was unnatural: an artifice of magic; a perversion of nature and true creation.

  The monk shook his head. These were the thoughts of the Pontiff and his followers. They feared magic in all its forms, feared the destruction it could bring. The Order took individuals who were touched b
y the Gift or the Sight and taught them to internalize their power, shielding the mortal world from the potentially devastating effects of untamed Chaos.

  In contrast, practitioners of the arcane arts sought to amplify their natural abilities through rituals and talismans. Their spells pierced the Legacy, opening a portal to the Chaos Sea. Wizards and witches served as conduits, channeling the flames of magic through their own bodies to unleash the fires of destruction upon the mortal world with no regard to the consequences. Or so the Order claimed.

  Jerrod’s mentor, Ezra, had taken a different view, however. The rituals of wizards and witches paralleled the meditations and teachings of the Order—two sides of the same coin. Chaos was not something to be feared, and magic was not an unholy abomination to be stamped out of existence. It was a tool, a weapon they could use against their ancient enemy when the Legacy inevitably crumbled.

  Such beliefs were heresy, of course. A betrayal of everything the Order stood for, as was Jerrod’s presence at the manse. This visit was an act of treason against the Pontiff; were he discovered he would be burned at the stake for his sins. Yet he had accepted this risk when he had chosen to follow Ezra, just as he accepted Ezra’s command to recruit a powerful mage like Rexol to their cause.

  They needed the wizard and his arcane knowledge of sorcery and magic. But even though Jerrod understood this as fact, the indoctrinations of the Order were not easily undone. The monk still felt an instinctive revulsion as he reached out and pushed on the iron gates.

  He expected them to swing open at his touch as they had on previous visits. To his surprise they remained closed, though a soft chime could be heard ringing from within the tower. A few minutes later a young and rather portly man he didn’t recognize emerged from the building, his silken robes stained with sweat. Despite his bulk, he carried himself with the light and haughty air of the upper nobility.

  “A monk?” the young man exclaimed in a thin, reedy voice, seeing Jerrod’s garb and the unmistakable silver-gray eyes. “What business do you have coming here?”

  “My business is with Rexol.”

  The man’s pink cheeks suddenly grew very pale, but he didn’t reply. He merely stood there on the far side of the gate, his lip twitching in agitation or perhaps fear.

  “I must speak with your master,” Jerrod said at last. “Open the gate.”

  “The Pontiff has no authority here!” the young man blurted out, his shrill voice rising to a sharp falsetto. “This is not the Monastery! You have no power over me! Go back to where—”

  “Khamin!”

  The strident babbling of the young man was mercifully cut off by the timely arrival of his master. The apprentice’s head snapped around, drawn by the undeniable command in the voice of the wizard he served. Jerrod, of course, had no need to turn his blind gaze to take in the appearance of the man who spoke.

  Even wearing a simple red robe, the wizard cut an imposing figure as he stood in the archway to his tower. He was thin and lean, and stood several inches taller than either Jerrod or the silken-clothed apprentice. His skin was a deep ebony common to the nomad tribes living along the Western Seas’ southernmost shores.

  The hood of his robe was thrown back, and his long black hair was twisted in an elaborate braid that crawled down the front of his left shoulder. His face was covered by a short, scraggly beard that traced the line of his jaw, and Jerrod could make out the lingering traces of strange red markings scrawled on the skin of his cheeks and forehead—likely the fading tattoos from a recent spell.

  Rexol looked to be in his forties, but the monk knew the wizard was much older than he appeared; at least sixty by Ezra’s calculations. As it always did, the youthful visage unnerved him, a subtle reminder of the mage’s willingness to use Chaos to disrupt the natural order. Yet it also reinforced Ezra’s decision to recruit Rexol to their cause long ago.

  Jerrod had heard the rumors of how the Pontiff had aged two decades in a single night, the terrifying cost of using the power of the Order’s secret Talisman to kill Ezra. In contrast Rexol—a mage who had studied the ways of Chaos—had learned to harness the power of magic to keep himself young.

  “There is a manuscript on the desk in my study,” the wizard said to his trembling apprentice, dismissing him from the conversation. “Go transcribe a copy so I can study it without damaging the original. I will deal with this visitor.”

  The heavyset young man looked quickly back and forth, his head turning several times from the wizard marching quickly forward from the tower to the monk standing calmly outside the gates. Rexol’s approach seemed to help him regain his composure.

  He gave a quick nod and muttered, “Of course, master,” before scurrying away, obviously glad to have an excuse to leave.

  “Khamin Ankha, my latest apprentice,” Rexol explained once the man had disappeared back into the tower. “Not particularly gifted, but his family is quite influential among the Free Cities of the North. They gave me sanctuary during the Purge.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  Rexol laughed harshly, an unkind sound. “Khamin is too stupid to try and figure out why you are here, and too cowardly to do anything about it in any case.”

  “If anyone finds out we are speaking—” Jerrod began.

  The wizard cut him off. “They won’t. Forget about Khamin. It will take that slack-minded fool the better part of the day to finish transcribing the passage I left for him. I regret that you had to meet him at all.”

  Jerrod decided to let the matter drop. With Ezra gone the mantle of leadership passed to him. He had more pressing matters to discuss with the wizard, and little enough time to do it.

  “I have troubling news. Something we should not be discussing out here on your doorstep.”

  “Then we will speak inside,” Rexol replied briskly. He gave a simple wave of his hand and the sealed iron gates opened, swinging inward.

  The monk scowled and shook his head before stepping through. “Chaos is not a toy to be played with.”

  “I doubt the Cataclysm was caused by all the wizards of the world opening their gates at the same time,” Rexol answered with a mocking grin.

  The sharpened tips of his gleaming white teeth stood out in stark relief against his red gums and black skin, giving his smile a savage—almost feral—appearance.

  A retort sprang to Jerrod’s lips, but he bit the words back. Arguing with Rexol would accomplish nothing. Instead he simply nodded and followed his host inside, leaving behind the unsettling stillness of the magic garden.

  The wizard led him into a small dining area in the back of the manse. As had happened with his previous visits, Jerrod felt more at ease once they were inside. The purpose of each room they passed through was readily apparent from the sparse yet functional furniture within: a study, a research laboratory, a library, a meditation room.

  Decorations and similar frivolity were nonexistent. This was the domicile of a man focused on a purpose, a man not given to material goods and worldly concerns lest they interfere with his pursuit of high knowledge. A man devoted to a cause … though Jerrod was smart enough to understand that this cause wasn’t necessarily the same as his own.

  When they reached their destination Rexol sat down at a small table, then motioned for his guest to do the same.

  “Tell me why you are here,” he demanded, forgoing preamble or courtesy.

  Jerrod could sense the animosity in his voice. Despite Ezra’s efforts to bring Rexol into the fold, the mage was still suspicious and mistrustful of anyone bearing the empty gray eyes of the Order. Understandable, given the years he had spent as a fugitive during the Purge.

  “Ezra is dead,” Jerrod said simply, cutting to the heart of the matter. “A week ago.”

  “He was old,” Rexol replied, showing no real remorse over the news.

  “It wasn’t age. One of our people was captured by the Inquisitors. She exposed Ezra as the leader of our cause.”

  “Are they coming for me next?” The
question was sharp and accusing.

  “Of course not!” Jerrod shot back, his own temper rising. “Only Ezra and I know of your involvement with our cause, and Ezra fled the Monastery before they could question him. He died out in the desert. The Pontiff doesn’t suspect either one of us.”

  The wizard chewed his lower lip with his pointed teeth, weighing the implications. “So why are you here?”

  “I thought you deserved to know. Ezra spoke highly of you. I think he considered you a friend.”

  Rexol flashed a grin and gave a dismissive laugh. “It’s easy to be a friend when someone has something you need.” His voice was sarcastic and bitter. “Ezra was only interested in how I could help your great and worthy cause. He saw me as nothing but a means to an end.”

  “Then why did you agree to help us?” Jerrod demanded, slamming his fist on the table. He knew his pent-up grief over the loss of his mentor was coming out as anger against Rexol, but he didn’t care.

  The wizard shrugged, his tone suddenly mellow. “The same reason, I suppose. I want something from you. Having allies among the Order might someday be of great value to me.”

  It might even save your life, Jerrod wanted to say. But he knew threatening the wizard would get him nowhere.

  “Besides,” Rexol continued. “It’s not as if Ezra actually ever asked me to do anything.”

  “That day will come soon,” Jerrod warned him. “The Burning Savior has already been born into the mortal world. The Oracles have seen it.”

  “Really?” Rexol seemed amused by the monk’s pronouncement. “Is our savior a boy or a girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Jerrod admitted. “The details of the vision are unclear. The identity of the Savior is shrouded in mystery.”

  Rexol barked out another short laugh. “What good are prophecy and vision if you can’t act on them?”

  “Ezra gave his life for this cause,” Jerrod reminded him.