Scythe didn’t even bother to reply. She simply turned and took off, moving so fast she appeared little more than a blur.
It didn’t take long for Jerrod to be satisfied that Keegan was exhausted but otherwise unharmed.
Coming to the same conclusion, Vaaler motioned over one of the small company of soldiers who had stayed behind as an escort.
“We’ll make camp here,” he said. “Set up a perimeter and get a fire going.”
As the soldier scurried off, Jerrod turned to Vaaler.
“Keep him safe,” the monk said.
“Where are you going?” Vaaler asked in surprise.
“I have something I must do. If I don’t return, don’t look for me. Once you have Methodis, go after Cassandra.”
Before the stunned Danaan could ask any further questions, Jerrod took off. Though not quite as fast as Scythe while she carried the Sword, it wouldn’t take him much longer than her to reach Callastan.
And then there will finally be a reckoning.
—
The Pontiff was so focused on watching her prisoner that she didn’t realize the fog had lifted until she heard the ringing of the watch bells.
“We’re under attack!” one of the guards who’d brought Methodis to her chambers exclaimed, stating the obvious.
With the unnatural mists dispelled, Yasmin could sense them clearly now: an army swarming over the walls and into the city.
A small army, she silently amended, her awareness giving her a general sense of the size of the force arrayed against them.
If we hold our positions, they have no hope of overrunning us.
“Go to your posts,” she snapped at the guards, who saluted, then ran off.
“You, too,” she told the Inquisitors who had come with her. “Hold the city and drive the enemy back.”
“What about the prisoner, Pontiff?” one asked.
“Do you really think he poses any threat I cannot handle?” she asked.
Rather than reply, the Inquisitors wisely rushed off to join in the defense.
Methodis still wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings, but it wouldn’t be long now. Without any of her tools, the interrogation would have to be more blunt, but Yasmin was confident she’d soon know everything about Cassandra and where she had taken the Crown.
—
Scythe never broke stride as she raced toward the battle, heading for the main gate. The defenders were struggling to close them, while her soldiers fought to keep them open as more and more of their army poured through.
Though outnumbered, the enemy was bolstered by a pair of Inquisitors, giving them the edge. Scythe’s arrival, however, changed everything.
Fueled by battle lust and Daemron’s Sword, she carved through a half dozen ordinary soldiers before the Inquisitors were able to blunt her charge. They came at her with a coordinated attack, striking from opposite sides so one would be guaranteed to flank her.
Their tactics were sound, but Scythe was too quick. Recognizing what they were doing, she threw herself at the closest foe in a reckless assault. Had he simply retreated, he might have survived. But he made the mistake of trying to meet her head-on, throwing up his staff to deflect the first blow from her silver blade. The Talisman sliced effortlessly through the Inquisitor’s weapon. Its momentum unabated, it cleaved deep into his torso, severing flesh, bone, and internal organs with ease.
As he dropped, the second Inquisitor lashed out at Scythe from behind. Though she was looking away, the Islander sensed the blow coming and threw herself into a forward roll. The staff whistled harmlessly through the air, throwing the Inquisitor off-balance.
Scythe spun around, crouching low and extending one leg to sweep her enemy’s feet out. The Inquisitor reacted by leaping high in the air and jabbing the butt end of his staff at Scythe’s face. Throwing her head back, Scythe avoided the worst of it and only took a glancing blow on the side of her chin.
She rolled clear, ready to launch another attack. Before she could, however, four of her soldiers threw themselves at the monk. Hacking and slashing with a mad fury, they brought their opponent down in seconds…much to Scythe’s amazement.
Daemron’s Sword doesn’t just affect me! she realized. It inspires my allies, too!
“Hold this gate!” she shouted, before racing off toward the prison.
The fighting raged all around her as the Free City soldiers pushed into the city, but she was focused only on one goal. Despite this, wherever she passed she sensed an immediate turn in the battle in their favor. Bolstered by the presence of the Talisman, ordinary soldiers fought like berserkers, routing the enemy with their unbridled ferocity.
By the time she reached the prison it wasn’t just the Free City soldiers battling the Order. In the streets around the jail, the gangs of Callastan had emerged from the sewers to join the fray.
Several Inquisitors outside the prison had managed to rally their troops, but they were hemmed in on all sides by a mob of armed thugs and violent criminals. In an ordinary battle they might have stemmed the onslaught and even started to push out. But they weren’t just fighting an opposing army. The Talisman was a gift from the Gods, and against its power they had no chance.
Within minutes of Scythe’s arrival all resistance at the prison was vanquished in an orgy of blood and screams. Leaving it to others to free those in the cells on the main floor, Scythe raced to the stairs that led to the torture chambers below.
The narrow hall was deserted. She rushed toward the heavy door at the end and slammed the Sword into it. The door was wrenched from its hinges by the force of the blow, and a shower of splinters and chunks of wood flew into the room.
Methodis wasn’t there. Instead, she saw a young man with a shaved head and pure white eyes.
“Where is he?” she snarled.
“Please,” the man said, holding up his hands. “I’m not a warrior. My name is Xadier. I’m just a Seer!”
“Where is he?” Scythe asked again, raising her blade and taking a slow step toward him.
“I can’t tell you,” he said defiantly. “I won’t!”
Scythe removed one of his hands with a casual swipe of the blade. Xadier screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching the spurting stump against his chest.
Laying the flat of her blade on his shoulder, Scythe called on the Sword to heal the wound, instantly staunching the flow of blood before he passed out.
“Where?” she asked again.
This time when he refused, she took his left leg below the knee. By the time he finally told her what she wanted to know, he was little more than a blubbering, limbless torso.
She took just long enough to grant Xadier the mercy of ending his life before turning and racing back up the stairs and out of the prison, heading for the Pontiff’s private chambers.
—
By the time Jerrod reached the battle, the Free City forces had already secured Callastan’s front gates. The bulk of the army was already inside the walls and pushing steadily deeper into the city.
As he entered the fray, he felt a sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. There was an almost palpable energy in the air, an excitement that made him feel as if victory was inevitable.
The Sword.
He felt its pull, drawing him willingly—eagerly—into the battle. But Jerrod resisted its call; he wasn’t here to help take the city.
This is as personal as it gets.
Scythe’s words had resonated with him. They’d touched something deep inside, something he’d buried for so long and so deep he almost forgot it existed. For over twenty years he’d served his cause, sacrificing everything to find the Children of Fire and help them fulfill their destiny.
But he hadn’t worked alone. He’d recruited others to his cause, just as Ezra had once recruited him. Over the years scores—if not hundreds—of men and women, some from within the Order and others from beyond the Monastery’s walls, had served with him. Nazir, the previous Pontiff, had worked re
lentlessly to quash what he called the Heresy of the Burning Savior. And Yasmin had been his most ardent follower.
How many of my friends and followers died by her hand? How many were burned at the stake, or tortured to death in her interrogation rooms?
Rounding a corner, he scrambled up the side of one of the closely packed buildings that lined the streets. Below him the fighting was spreading quickly, and everywhere he looked the Order was losing ground.
Once again he felt the call of the Sword, urging him to leap down from on high and bring death to the enemy. Again, he resisted, setting off along the rooftops toward the center of the city.
Of all those who had sworn to walk Ezra’s path, only he was left. Some had given their lives willingly over the years so that he could evade capture whenever Yasmin and her Inquisitors had closed in on him. Others had sacrificed themselves to help him and Keegan escape the Monastery after Rexol and his apprentice were imprisoned. Most had simply been hunted down and slaughtered for daring to defy the Order’s doctrine.
He had accepted their deaths as part of the greater good. He had swallowed his anger and sorrow each time, not allowing himself to become distracted from his goal. Now they were nearing the endgame. Soon, one way or another, the prophecy would be fulfilled.
Nazir was gone, slain when the Minions attacked the Monastery. But Yasmin was still alive, and the memories of all those he had lost cried out for her blood.
This is as personal as it gets.
He knew Yasmin well. He had studied her from afar for years just as she had studied him, each trying to know the enemy better in their deadly game of cat and mouse. She was ruthlessly practical, but she also understood the importance of symbols, especially for the common masses. Whenever she came to a city or town—whether as the Pontiff or in her earlier days as an Inquisitor—she always set up her private quarters in a building right beside the home of the city’s ruler.
She projects humility by living an austere existence while sitting in the lap of luxury. She shames those around her for their excess, and intimidates them with her constant presence.
He knew where he’d find Yasmin. And when he did, only one of them would walk away.
—
Yasmin knew that the city was lost. The enemies at the gate had been joined by rebels inside the walls; the Order’s defeat was only a matter of time.
But even though virtually all her followers were being slaughtered in the streets, there was still hope. If she could find Cassandra and reclaim the Crown, the Order could rise again. And Methodis was the key.
He lay huddled in the corner of her otherwise empty room. As she always did, she’d had all the furnishings removed when she claimed it for her own.
Material possessions are a sign of weakness.
The enemy would eventually find their way here to the center of the city. She had hoped to interrogate the healer before that happened, but now she was having second thoughts. She might need to flee…taking Methodis with her, of course.
She briefly regretted sending the guards away. At the time she thought the attack would be easily beaten back, but now she could have used them to help transport her still-barely-conscious prisoner.
I can take to the rooftops, she realized. Avoid the fighting. Even carrying him with me I—
Her thoughts were cut short as she sensed his arrival. For an instant she refused to believe it was true. She’d hunted him for so long, come so close to capturing him so many times, that she couldn’t believe he would show up now.
“Yasmin!” Jerrod called from the far end of the hall. “It’s time to pay for your crimes!”
“Only a heretic would dare to pass judgment on the Pontiff!” she shouted back, a smile crossing her face.
Jerrod was coming toward her, walking slowly. She could sense he was alone, just as he could sense the same about her.
“I’ve dreamed of this day more times than you can imagine,” she told him as he reached the door to her room.
“Leave the dreaming to the Seers,” Jerrod advised.
She ran the fingers of her left hand gently over the scarred skin of her scalp as she studied him: a nervous habit she had broken many years ago returning in the anticipation of what was to come.
He looked much as she remembered from their last meeting several years ago—a fit but otherwise ordinary man. He wasn’t particularly broad or tall; there was hardly anything distinguishing about him at all. But she knew he was highly skilled and very, very dangerous.
But so am I!
“You’re unarmed,” he noted. “Did you lose your staff?”
“The Pontiff never carries a weapon,” she reminded him. “But I will enjoy killing you with my bare hands.”
He wasn’t carrying a weapon, either, but Yasmin knew that didn’t make him any less deadly.
In the corner, Methodis groaned softly and Yasmin seized on the distraction to make the first move.
She came at him high, leaping into the air and snapping out the heel of her boot at his head. Jerrod slapped it away as she flew past and spun around as he threw an elbow at her ribs. Yasmin blocked it with her forearm, twisting in the air so that when she landed they were still facing each other, but standing on the opposite sides of the room.
“A pedestrian first pass,” she taunted. “I expected something more from you.”
“It’s never good to reveal too much too early,” he answered.
He came rushing forward at a strange angle, and Yasmin instinctively backed up, uncertain of his line of attack. Her retreat took her into the corner of the room as Jerrod jumped at a forty-five-degree angle, planted one foot on the wall for leverage, and kicked off in the complete opposite direction, his fist slamming down at the bridge of her nose.
The unorthodox move happened too fast for the eye to follow, but the Pontiff’s senses operated at a higher level. In the instant it took to execute, she realized not only what he was doing but that she had nowhere to dodge. Backed into the corner, her only option was to throw her head forward, absorbing the blow with the top of her bare scalp.
At the last instant Jerrod opened his fist and struck her with an open palm to keep from breaking his knuckles on the hard bone of her skull. The blow hit hard enough to drive Yasmin to her knees, and Jerrod’s momentum brought him down on top of her. But as she dropped she rolled onto her back and kicked up hard with both feet.
Her kick lacked any real power, but it was strong enough to throw Jerrod off her. He landed on his feet, legs spread wide and knees bent as he dropped into a fighting crouch just as Yasmin popped back up.
“Unconventional,” she told him. “But you weren’t quick enough to take advantage.”
“I have a few more tricks up my sleeve,” he told her.
An empty threat, Yasmin thought.
Though no damage had been done in their two brief exchanges, they’d tested each other’s limits. And the Pontiff knew she was quicker.
She threw herself at him full force with a blinding flurry of kicks, punches, elbows, and knees. Jerrod countered the barrage, deflecting, dodging, and blocking each attack. She struck with perfect form and precision each time, but Jerrod couldn’t match her. On one of his counters his balance shifted a miniscule amount to his heels, and she seized on the advantage by pressing in close and getting low. With better leverage, each of her attacks packed even more force and she relentlessly drove him back. He tried to disengage, but with her superior position she cut off each avenue of escape and slowly backed him into the corner.
In desperation he threw his hands over his head and spun away, having no choice but to absorb a series of devastating punches to his midsection to break away and create some space. She heard a rib crack and Jerrod grunted in pain as he retreated to the far side of the room, breathing hard.
“Tired already?” she said, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Maybe you should have been training more instead of running around consorting with wizards and heretics.”
Je
rrod came at her again, throwing a series of feints and fakes to confuse her into making a mistake. But Yasmin didn’t make mistakes. She had spent thousands upon thousands of hours perfecting her technique, and even more meditating and learning to channel her inner spark of Chaos into perfect physical action.
She calmly countered each of his moves, never overreacting or taking a foolish risk that would leave her exposed. And once again she picked away at the tiny imperfections in his form, slowly building up each subtle edge and incremental advantage until she had him once more out of position.
This time she exploited her opportunity far more aggressively, striking for his face and throat with a succession of tight chops and sharp jabs from the edge of her palm. As he slapped her attacks away he overreached just enough for her to seize his thumb and snap it back, dislocating it with a sharp snap.
Jerrod screamed and stumbled back. Instead of pursuing, she let him go, taking a moment to relish his pain.
“You’re going to lose,” she said. “We both know it. It will take time, but this will inevitably end with you broken and bloody at my feet.”
Throwing all caution to the wind, Jerrod came at her with pure, reckless aggression. His rage would have overwhelmed a lesser opponent; against the Pontiff it only opened him up to a brutal beating.
She slid under a wild punch and smashed her forehead into his nose, crumpling it with a sickening thud. Undeterred by the blood gushing down his face, he lashed out with a knee. Yasmin dodged the blow by dropping low and slamming her shoulder into his other leg. Braced against the floor, it buckled sideways, ripping ligaments and cartilage.
Unable to support his weight, Jerrod collapsed. As he fell, she caught his wrist and twisted, dislocating his elbow. Yasmin rolled clear of her broken opponent, kicking him hard enough in the face to knock out a tooth as she did so.
She stood over her wounded foe, staring down at him.
“This is actually your fault,” she told him. “You were already a legend when I joined the Monastery. Jerrod the Heretic.
“They told such wild tales of your incredible prowess that I dedicated myself to becoming the greatest warrior the Order had ever known. I vowed that if we ever met, I would destroy you.”