The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (12 page)

The barbarians clearly favored brute force over precision. With skill and proper training, a sharp, light blade could be devastating.
But to someone unfamiliar with their usage, Scythe’s small knives and Vaaler’s thin rapier blade looked dainty and fragile.

They don’t think our weapons are even worth confiscating. Either that, or Norr somehow convinced them to let us keep them as part of the ransom negotiations
.

The Danaan let his eyes drift over to the big man, wondering just how high a price he’d promised the Stone Spirits would pay.

Norr was walking with his head down, his limping gait uneven. The big man’s brow was tense and furrowed, his jaw clenched—possibly due to pain from his injuries, though Vaaler suspected he was more bothered by the coming reunion with his clan.

Scythe walked beside him, her own features reflecting the anxious stress of her lover. In the short time Vaaler had known her, he had seen Scythe’s temper flare up several times. She wasn’t one to keep her feelings hidden. It was odd to see her now, struggling—and failing—to hide her growing frustration with Norr’s secretive behavior.

They continued marching for several hours, none of them speaking. Vaaler was on the verge of telling them they needed to stop to let Keegan and Norr rest when one of the Pack Masters held up her hand, bringing the entire party to a halt.

“We’re here,” Norr informed his friends.

There weren’t any landmarks Vaaler could make out—they had stopped at a place on the flat, featureless tundra that looked like every other location to his eye.

“Where’s your clan?” Scythe asked.

“They will come soon,” Norr promised, gingerly lowering himself to the cold ground and settling in to wait.

He put an end to further discussion by digging into the jerky rations they’d each been given at the start of the journey. Vaaler thought Scythe might push him for more information, but instead, she settled in beside him and they ate in silence.

Vaaler and the others did the same. He noticed the Ice Fangs weren’t eating, however. They seemed more alert; more on edge than before. Keegan shot him a look that indicated he’d noticed it as well, but with Jerrod hovering close by, the two weren’t able to discuss what it might mean.

They waited almost an hour before the Stone Spirit envoys arrived. There were fifteen of them, traveling on foot: twelve men and three women. They were all armed—like the regular warriors of the Ice Fangs, they favored spears, axes, and heavy swords. But the craftsmanship of the Stone Spirit weapons was clearly superior, even at a distance.

The Ice Fangs aren’t a wealthy clan
, Vaaler realized.
They have to make do with whatever they can scrounge
.

As the new arrivals drew closer Vaaler could see that their clothes, though similar in style to the Ice Fang garb, were also better made. Instead of an ill-fitting assortment of crudely stitched animal skins draped haphazardly on the wearer, the Stone Spirits sported heavy fur vests that left their arms bare and short, hide-sewn skirts that reached almost down to their knee-high, cured-leather boots.

Outnumbered and sporting inferior weaponry, the Ice Fangs would have to rely on their dogs to even the odds if things turned ugly. Seeing the hard expressions of the Stone Spirit warriors, Vaaler wasn’t sure that would be enough.

Hopefully it doesn’t come to that
.

The Stone Spirit delegation stopped their approach about fifty yards from where the Ice Fangs had made their camp. Three of them—two men armed with swords and carrying large burlap sacks slung over their shoulders and a tall woman wielding a heavy spear—advanced alone.

The Pack Masters went out as a trio to meet them halfway, ordering the dogs to stay in place with a series of short, sharp whistles.

“These are the prisoners?” the tall woman asked to begin the parley. She was speaking Verlsung, her voice loud and clear enough that Vaaler could easily make out every word. She was addressing the Pack Masters, but she seemed to be looking past them directly at Norr.

Even if she hadn’t been the one to speak, it wouldn’t have been hard to identify her as the leader of the group. She carried herself with the confident bearing of someone in charge, her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. She looked to be about Norr’s age—maybe ten years older than him, Keegan, and Scythe.

There was something striking in her hard, pale features: a cold and dangerous beauty that reflected the land of her birth. Her auburn hair was twisted into a long, thick braid that hung down her back, the bangs held out of her ice-blue eyes by a simple silver circlet. Her shoulders were broad, her alabaster arms lean and muscular. Each forearm was covered with a metal bracer running from wrist to elbow, polished so that they glinted in the sun.

Unlike the simple weapons of the Ice Fangs, the shaft of her spear was painted with symbols Vaaler couldn’t quite make out. A pair of feathers—one white, one black—and several small charms dangled from where the metal tip had been lashed on with thick sinew cords.

“On behalf of the Stone Spirit clan,” the woman said, her voice taking on the tone of a formal, ritualized performance, “I ask what is to be the fate of these prisoners?”

“The penalty for trespassing on our land is death,” one of the Pack Masters responded. “But out of respect for the mighty Stone Spirit clan, we will show mercy.”

“And out of respect for the mighty Ice Fang clan, we will give you these gifts,” the woman responded.

The Stone Spirit envoys stepped forward and dropped their sacks at the feet of the Pack Masters. The two Ice Fangs who
hadn’t spoken quickly rummaged through, then nodded to the third.

“We accept these gifts from the mighty Stone Spirit clan.”

They turned to go, but stopped when the auburn-haired woman spoke again, this time in a less stiff, more normal tone.

“Hadawas has called for a Conclave.”

“The Ice Fangs do not pay tribute to the Chief of the Sun Blades,” the Pack Master answered.

“Neither do the Stone Spirits,” the woman noted. “But many of us are gathering to hear his wisdom.”

“We will not answer his summons,” the Pack Master insisted. “If Hadawas wants to share his wisdom with the Ice Fangs, let him come to us.”

“I will give him your answer,” the woman replied, and Vaaler couldn’t quite tell if her words were meant to be a threat.

With the conversation at an end, the Pack Masters were eager to return to the rest of their clan. A few quick commands and sharp whistles, and the entire troupe was up and moving off, headed back the way they’d come.

As they retreated, the rest of the Stone Spirit delegation moved forward. Their weapons were still held at their sides, but they were tense and ready to spring into action.

“Welcome back, Norr,” the woman said, still speaking in Verlsung. “I never thought to see the day you would return.”

He didn’t say anything in reply.

“Take their weapons,” the woman ordered her followers.

Several of them stepped forward, only to stop abruptly when Norr held up his massive hand. Vaaler couldn’t help but notice the tall woman scowling at their reaction.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Norr said, speaking in the Southland tongue to his friends. “But we have to turn over our weapons.”

“Why?” Scythe demanded, suddenly suspicious. “I thought these were your people. Your family.”

“They will not harm us,” Norr reassured her. “Shalana is an honorable woman. We can trust her.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Scythe countered. “And I’m not giving up my blades until you do. What’s going on?”

To Vaaler’s surprise, it was the tall woman who answered them in Allrish.

“Give over your weapons,” she warned, her accent even thicker than Norr’s, “or we cut you down and leave you for the dogs to find.”

“Don’t speak to her like that!” Norr snapped in his native tongue.

In response to the big man’s anger, the Stone Spirit warriors all took an instinctive half step back. All except Shalana.

“You want my weapons, come and take them!” Scythe snarled, dropping into a fighting crouch as her knives materialized in her hands.

The Stone Spirit warriors had recovered their composure. Seeing Scythe’s knives, they raised their own weapons and stepped forward. This time it was Shalana who stopped them with a gesture.

“Keep your weapons for now,” she said told Scythe, her voice calm. “It’s foolish to kill prisoners we paid so much for.”

“Prisoners?” Scythe exclaimed, her focus shifting from Shalana to Norr as she relaxed her posture and slipped her twin blades back out of sight. “Did you know about this?”

The big man opened his mouth to explain, then closed it and hung his head in silent shame, unable to meet Scythe’s accusing gaze.

“You must be dangerous,” Shalana noted while arching one eyebrow in Scythe’s direction. “Not many can scare my husband into silence.”

I
T WAS HARD
for Cassandra to track the passage of time inside the Guardian’s cave. The fire always burned warm and bright inside, while outside there seemed to be an endless storm of icy wind and swirling snow that obscured the rising and setting of the sun behind dark clouds.

But it was more than that. Time seemed to move differently in the cave, as if they were sheltered from the world outside. Warm. Safe. Yet Cassandra knew the safety was an illusion.

I’m becoming too comfortable here
.

Nazir had often warned his students that the greatest threat to the Order was complacency; the subtle slide into comfort and contentment could be as deadly as any army. The longer she waited, the more powerful the forces gathering against her would become. She’d already seen proof of that in her dreams.

The avian huntress who had stalked her during her initial flight from the Monastery was gone, slinking away in defeat rather than challenge the might of the Guardian. But a new threat had emerged to take her place. Cassandra had seen them in a recurring vision over the past three nights: two deformed, naked figures—one red, one blue, but otherwise identical—coming for her. Though humanoid, they scuttled across the icy tundra of the plains on all fours, their limbs long and spiderlike. They moved more slowly than the flying woman, keeping their snouts pressed
close to the ground as they tracked her trail through the Southlands and into the Frozen East. She knew they wouldn’t be fooled by the false paths she’d conjured to confuse and mislead her previous pursuer. And they wouldn’t be afraid to challenge the Guardian.

The blue-skinned titan was sitting with his back against the wall near the entrance of the cave, peering out into the snowstorm.

As far away as he can get from the Crown
, Cassandra noticed.

Ever since she realized the toll the Crown was taking on her host, she’d studied him carefully, searching for more telltale signs he was growing weaker. But it was like trying to watch someone age: the changes were imperceptible yet nonetheless relentless. Though still a magnificent physical specimen, his once-flawless immortal beauty was now marred by scattered gray strands in his dark hair and beard and faint creases around his eyes. The aura of invincibility, the glow of enduring, eternal power that had once radiated from him, was gone.

He will die before he casts me out
.

“I have to leave,” Cassandra told her protector, rising to her feet and coming over to stand beside him.

“The storm will pass in a day or two,” he assured her. “Rest until then.”

A familiar refrain, but one it was hard to argue against. Her journey would be hard enough without having to battle the elements.

Does he believe he can keep me safe if I stay here? Or after so many centuries alone, does he just like having someone else around?

She knew the storm wouldn’t slow the creatures she had seen in her vision. And in his weakened state, she wasn’t certain the Guardian could defeat them. She had to leave. Soon.

Tomorrow, then. Even if the storm doesn’t break
.

Why wait?
the voice in her head that was not her own insisted.
The storm is nothing compared to the power of the Talismans! The Guardian is tired; he is ready to pass on his burden. Ask for the Sword, and he will give it to you! Take it and the Crown and leave now!

Cassandra shook her head, knowing she couldn’t do that. The Crown was already too much for her to bear. If she dared lay claim to a second Talisman, she feared the temptation of such power would be too much to resist.

Would that be a bad thing?
the voice demanded.
Daemron used the Talismans to turn himself into a God! Why can’t you do the same?

With a sudden start, she realized why the unwelcome voice sounded so familiar. The ruthless ambition and arrogance reminded her of Rexol. She knew her former master was dead—consumed by the power of the Crown when he tried to use it. But he had marked her before his death; he’d cast some kind of spell over her that had made her betray the Pontiff and help him escape his prison in the Monastery.

His spell must have awakened something inside me. Conjured up buried memories of him from deep within my subconscious. Or maybe it unlocked something selfish inside me that seeks to undermine all I learned during my time in the Order
.

Recognizing the source of the voice did nothing to quell it, however.

If you won’t take the Sword, at least ask the Guardian about it. You need to learn more about the Talismans. You need to understand their power. You need to unravel their mysteries if you hope to stop the Slayer’s return!

The words still didn’t seem like her own, but in this case she found it harder simply to dismiss them. Huddled in the cave so close to both the Crown and the Sword, it was hard not to obsess over them. There were many questions Cassandra wanted to ask about the Talismans, but she had held her tongue for fear of upsetting her host as she’d done when she’d asked him about Daemron
and the True Gods. But balanced against the fate of the entire mortal world, her fears seemed foolish.