The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (19 page)

Blood and armies. War is coming. Against the Danaan? Against our own people? What wisdom would Nazir have drawn from this?

Despite her faith, Yasmin didn’t believe in divine inspiration. She believed in preparation and planning; success came through cold, hard resolve. When the sudden spark of understanding flared up within her, she was momentarily stunned by its force.

The Purge. The blood of wizards, witches, and heretics. The armies of the just
.

“I understand the visions,” she declared. “It is time for another Purge.”

Xadier knew better than to question her openly, but she caught a glimmer of doubt in the young man’s eye. Nazir had openly cautioned against another Purge, believing it could destroy the Order. He had feared the Free Cities would unite against them, and the public executions and harsh laws against magic would drive the people of the Southlands to rebellion. Perhaps he had been right, once. Times were different now.

“For too long we have sat idly by while those with Chaos in their blood have spread their vile teachings,” Yasmin began. “We have allowed them to practice their foul arts openly, without fear of punishment and retribution, and they have brought death and destruction to the land.

“Chaos has been unleashed upon the mortal world,” she continued. “The rumors have spread throughout the Southlands: The
Monastery has fallen; Chaos Spawn wander the depths of the Danaan forest; Evil walks the earth.

“The devastation in Torian has rekindled the fear of rogue mages, especially among the Free Cities,” she explained. “The people there are scared. Helpless. Powerless. They need someone to lead them, someone to hold back the Chaos.

“This time the Free Cities will not oppose us—they will flock to our cause, along with the entire Southlands. They are eager to follow, and it is our sacred duty to guide them down the righteous path!”

“Yes, Pontiff,” Xadier agreed, his expression changing to one of rapturous joy as he was swept up in her holy fervor. “Now I see! Now I understand!”

“We will finish the job we began forty years ago,” Yasmin vowed. “In the name of the True Gods, we will cleanse this world of Chaos in all its forms!”

Cassandra’s mind floated in a meditative fog somewhere between waking and sleep. The semiconscious state allowed her mind to rest as her body continued its slow but steady progress, instinctively placing one foot in front of the other as she marched through the ankle-deep snow.

Meditation was a poor substitute for true sleep, but she didn’t have the luxury of allowing herself to stop. The ones who hunted her—the Crawling Twins—didn’t sleep. She could sense them scuttling along in her wake, tireless and relentless as they tracked her across the frozen plains. They were still at least two days behind her, but they were gaining.

Her journey was made more difficult by a steady stream of wandering Easterners crossing her path. Their numbers were far greater than when she had first crossed the tundra on her way to
the Guardian’s cave. Instead of a few scattered hunting parties or scouting patrols made up of three or four individuals, she was seeing processions numbering twenty or more, all heading in the same northeasterly direction. It almost seemed as if there was some kind of mass migration or gathering under way, though Cassandra had no idea what could be behind it.

Each time one of the barbarian bands drew near she had to take steps to hide her presence. Sometimes she would have to change direction to avoid running into them, other times she would have to temporarily slow or pick up her pace. In every instance, she had to call on the power of the Talisman she carried in the sack slung over her shoulder, obscuring their sight so they wouldn’t notice the signs of her passing.

She had long since stopped wondering at how she knew to do this; it had become almost second nature. The principle was the same as the one she’d used to cast out false trails to confuse and mislead the avian huntress during her initial flight with the Crown. It wasn’t something she consciously tried to do; it seemed to happen instinctively, as if something deep inside her—or inside the Talisman itself—sensed the danger and took steps to protect her.

Unfortunately, the Crawling Twins were not fooled by such tricks. Even at this great distance, she’d felt their minds brush up against hers: They shared a simple, almost bestial, intelligence. Their thoughts were primitive and direct, but focused to the point of obsession. They had her scent, and nothing she could do would throw them off it. All she could do now was keep moving and hope she could stay ahead of them.

That isn’t all you can do
, the now-familiar voice that wasn’t her own said inside her head.
You already draw upon the power of the Crown just by being near it. Think of what you could do if you dared to put it on!

Cassandra ignored the voice as she always did. But its insistent presence jarred her from her meditative state. She shook her head
from side to side as full awareness reluctantly returned, taking quick stock of her surroundings.

Nothing had changed. The temperature was dropping and her belly was empty, but she was still strong enough to ward off the worst of the cold and hunger through sheer force of will. Hopefully by the time her strength began to falter, she would be in more hospitable surroundings.

Her mission was still the same: get to Callastan and find a ship to take her to the Western Isles. Ahead of her were leagues and leagues of bare, frozen plains, populated by traveling tribes of savages. Beyond that was the breadth of the entire Southlands, swarming with Yasmin’s Inquisitors. And behind her were the Crawling Twins, inexorably getting closer and closer.

Dwelling on all the obstacles in her path could only weaken her resolve, so Cassandra pushed them from her mind. Calling on her monastic training, she let herself slip back into a semiconscious meditative state, her thoughts slipping away until all that remained was the steady rhythm of her feet crunching on the snow.

The Crown was a prison without walls, but it was still a prison. One Rexol was determined to escape.

The great mage hadn’t been strong enough to contain the Chaos unleashed when he dared to put the Talisman on. Its power consumed his physical form; incinerating his flesh and turning his bones into a pile of burned ash. Yet though his body was gone, Rexol’s mind and essence—his awareness and his identity—had survived.

Through sheer force of will, he had kept himself from being swallowed up into the infinity of knowledge swirling inside the Crown. The ordeal had left his disembodied consciousness floating aimlessly inside the vastness of the Talisman’s power, weak and
virtually helpless. But over time his strength slowly returned, and he realized that his connection to Cassandra—forged through the invisible mark he had burned into her arm when she had been his ward—still existed.

Even trapped in the Crown, he was still able to exert an influence on the mortal world through the young woman. Using her as a conduit, he had channeled the power of the Crown to create the false trails that had allowed Cassandra to reach the safety of the Guardian’s cave during her flight from the Monastery. In her current exodus he was the one twisting and altering the perceptions of the wandering barbarians to keep her hidden.

And he was the one who kept urging her to use the Crown.

Cassandra felt his presence. He knew she could hear his words in her mind; she had even recognized Rexol’s influence in them. But he doubted she understood what was really happening. She thought his words were a mixture of memories and recollections—ideas formed in some deep, dark recess of her own mind. She had no idea he still lived, and he was eager to preserve her misconception. Yet even though he’d tried to make his suggestions seem like her own, so far she had rejected them out of hand.

Rexol wasn’t discouraged. He could sense he was beginning to wear down her resistance. She was getting weaker and he was growing stronger; eventually she would stop ignoring his suggestions, give in and use the Crown.

When she did, he would be ready. And his imprisonment would end.

S
HALANA SAT STILL
and quiet in the darkness, listening to the walls of her tent rustle and snap as they were battered by the wind.

As clan chief, her domicile was the largest in the camp. Nearly fifteen feet on each side, there was enough room for her to stand fully upright, though for now she was seated cross-legged on a small fur blanket in the center.

After five long years as chief, the tent still felt strange to her. She had lived here as a young girl with her mother, but she could barely remember those days. After the sickness took her, Norr’s father had taken her in. With only the three of them, they hadn’t needed much room: a cluster of small tents near the center of the camp was where she spent most of her youth.

Even when Terramon had been around, she hadn’t lived with him. Her father had never remarried, and he was rarely in the main camp for more than a month at a time. He was always eager to begin the next campaign, eager to lead the next raid, eager to force the surrounding clans to bow down and pay tribute to the Stone Spirits. He had little time or concern for the needs of a young daughter; growing up, it was just easier for everyone for her to stay with her adopted family.

When she came of age she joined the Stone Spirit war parties in their battles and raids, as did Norr. But that didn’t bring her any
closer to Terramon. Norr’s father had taught her that glory in battle was only a means to an end, a way to protect and secure the things that truly mattered: clan and family. She cherished her time in the camp; that was the reason she fought.

Terramon felt differently. For him, conquest was a goal in and of itself. When he wasn’t leading his warriors into battle, he was restless and sullen. He scowled and glared at everyone in the camp. He took little pleasure in the stories and songs shared over drinks in the Long Hall. He had elevated the Stone Spirits to one of the largest and strongest clans in the East, earning the respect and admiration of his thanes and his people. But they never loved him.

Shalana had vowed her reign would be different than her father’s. She wouldn’t make the same mistakes. She wouldn’t force her thanes into an endless succession of battles against neighboring clans like her father had. She would be the chief to bring peace and prosperity to the Stone Spirits. Instead, she sat alone in the cavernous tent, knowing that many of her people would be cheering against her when she faced Norr in three days.

Why did you come back now, you great oaf? Dragging your Outlander friends and your Islander harlot with you? After all this time, why reopen these old wounds?

In the first year after he left, she—like everyone else in the clan—kept expecting him to return. She had challenged him for leadership, but she’d borne him no ill will. Being chief was her destiny; it was her birthright. She wasn’t willing to surrender that to anyone, not even Norr. She thought her betrothed would understand that. She thought he would give her the honor of meeting her challenge.

Maybe we didn’t know each other as well as I thought
.

As the months rolled by and he didn’t return, Shalana came to realize the truth: Norr had turned his back on her and the Stone Spirits. She accepted the truth for what it was and moved on. But the future she envisioned for her people never came to pass.

When Terramon stepped down, the Black Wings—a recently conquered clan—refused to pay their promised tribute. The Red Bear was gone, and the new chief was a woman whose own father had not deemed her worthy of being named his successor. She was perceived as flawed and weak, and it made the Black Wings bold.

Shalana had no choice but to rally her thanes and bring the rebel clan to heel. She broke them easily, proving her skill as a warrior and a leader on the field of battle. But when it came time to punish them for transgressions, she faltered.

Her father would have doubled their tribute. He would have made prisoners of their warriors and hunters, and taken most of their weapons and food stores. But Shalana knew such a sentence would mean starvation and suffering when winter came. She was not hard-hearted enough to condemn scores of men, women, and even children to a grim, slow death.

Terramon warned me not to be lenient
, she recalled.
He warned me the other clans were watching
.

What Shalana considered mercy, others saw as a lack of resolve. By failing to impose brutal consequences on the Black Wings, she inadvertently encouraged others to rise up against the Stone Spirits. More clans refused to pay tribute. Some even banded together, forming alliances in the hope they could become the dominant clan in the region.

Shalana broke them all, one by one. Just like her father, she led her thanes in a seemingly endless cycle of war and bloodshed against the other clans. But instead of gaining power, influence, and glory for the Stone Spirits, her campaigns were a desperate struggle to hold together the fraying corners of Terramon’s empire.

In the Long Hall and in the war councils, her thanes gave her their support. Yet she knew there were whispers and rumors that things would have been different if Norr had been chief.

Maybe they would have
, Shalana admitted to herself.
But I had no choice. I did what had to be done
.

She tried to ignore the whispers. In battle after battle she fought to forge her own legend—one to rival the stories still told in whispers of the Red Bear. Through her actions, she thought she could win the respect and admiration of her thanes and the loyalty and obedience of her clan. But now she understood that nothing she did would ever be enough. Norr was something she would never be: beloved.

She knew that the Red Bear had proved himself too many times in battle to ever be branded a coward. Yet his sudden flight in the face of her challenge should have cast some aspersions on his reputation. Instead, the opposite had happened.

Many believed he had done something noble by leaving, sparing Shalana the shame of defeat, or sacrificing himself to keep the loyalties of the clan from being divided. His exploits—along with his prowess in battle, his incredible strength, and his great courage—became more and more legendary in the retelling. The myth and legend of the Red Bear became greater than the man himself. His absence only made them love him even more.