“A monk of the Order, and a young Chaos mage,” she finished for him, briefly bowing her head.
“Yes, my Queen.”
“It is as I have foreseen,” she said calmly, as if sorrow and grief were no longer a part of her. Or a part so familiar she no longer cared.
She took a deep breath as if to steel herself.
“Vaaler has betrayed our ancient laws. For this crime, he is forbidden from ever setting foot in Ferlhame again. He must live the rest of his life in exile.”
Drake’s eyes opened wide, but he didn’t protest. There was no point. She had reached a decision; he could see it in her face and her bearing. Something in her visions had been revealed to her, and he was neither proud nor foolish enough to speak out against what she had seen.
“I shall do as you command.”
“Take a patrol and intercept them before they reach the city,” she commanded. “Tell my son he is banished from the Danaan lands, by my proclamation. Do this yourself, Drake. If he hears it from you he will know it to be true.”
“Yes, my Queen.” Drake hesitated before asking the question he feared he already knew the answer to. “And if he refuses to obey your edict?”
“My son and those who travel with him cannot be allowed to enter the city. If necessary, you must kill him.”
For the past five days Vaaler had been leading his new companions toward Ferlhame. For the patrols, the entire journey would have taken only three days, but the humans couldn’t move with the speed of the Danaan, and Keegan was still too frail to push their pace beyond a slow, steady walk. Even at this pace the young mage was forced to lean heavily on Rexol’s staff to support him.
None of them spoke much on the journey, which was fine with the prince. He had enough on his mind as it was.
Everything made sense to him now. It had all come together as he had listened to the monk and Keegan tell their story. Vaaler was no wizard, but he had learned much about magic during his years studying under Rexol. He understood Chaos better than anyone in his mother’s court, including High Sorcerer Andar. When they mentioned the Talismans, the truth had struck him in a sudden flash. Suddenly the signs were all too clear to him.
Rexol had devoted decades to learning and mastering his craft; however, his Danaan counterparts needed no such study. The Danaan were a people of magic. There were more wizards in Ferlhame alone than in all of the Southlands. Controlling and shaping Chaos came naturally to them; they took it for granted. Vaaler had never understood why this should be, until now.
The ring his mother always wore around her neck—the symbol of the Danaan Monarchs—was one of the Talismans. Forged to allow a mortal to shape the very fires of creation, the power of the Ring had guided and shaped the Danaan nation and its people. It had become a part of them, molding them into a nation of Chaos users.
And now with the Legacy weakening, the full potential of the Talisman was being unleashed. And it was destroying his mother.
That was why she dreamed of fire and destruction: The waxing power of the ring was twisting her visions and her mind. She had seen the coming of the Destroyer of Worlds and a second Cataclysm for her people, but she had not understood that the means to stand against their enemy was close at hand. None of them had realized it.
He would tell them. He would explain everything to the Queen and her council. He would free his mother from the terrible burden by convincing her to give the Ring to Keegan, that he might fulfill his destiny.
He would bring his people a savior, and his people would finally accept him as the heir to their throne.
Walking a route he knew by heart, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he wasn’t even aware of his surroundings. Not as aware as he should have been.
“We have company,” Jerrod whispered, coming up behind him to place a hand on his shoulder to stop his progress. “Watching us from the branches.”
Keegan’s physical strength was returning quickly. Each morning he felt more refreshed and alive, despite the miles they had traveled the day before. The witchroot in his veins was no longer at a toxic level. Instead it energized him, made him feel confident and powerful. It drove him onward.
He also felt as if he was drawing strength from the forest itself. The woods were old; many of the trees had survived the Cataclysm; their roots ran deep. They reached down into the earth and touched the well of life below, drawing on the magic the Gods had used to create the world itself. Powerful enchantments had been cast over the forest long ago; the magic of the ancient spells still lingered. Jerrod had said the enchantments obscured and confused his Sight, but Keegan felt his own abilities feeding on them. The magic of the forest was healing and regenerating his Chaos-ravaged body.
But it was more than just the witchroot or the woods. When Vaaler had told them where to the find the Ring, it was as if a spark had flared up within Keegan. He could feel the power of it calling to him even across the forest, just as Rexol must have felt the power of the Crown calling to him in the Monastery. Vaaler was leading them to the hidden Danaan capital, but Keegan honestly believed he could have found the way himself.
Ahead of him, Jerrod reached out a hand and stopped Vaaler in his tracks.
“We have company,” he heard the monk whisper. “Watching us from the branches.”
Now that he was aware of them, Keegan could see them clearly with his mind’s eye—they had walked right into an ambush. There were a dozen of them all told; they were surrounded on all sides.
“What’s going on?” Scythe demanded from the rear of the group, her voice tense and nervous. “Why’d we stop?”
As if in answer to her question, half a dozen Danaan descended from the treetops: two behind them, and two each on the left and the right. They had their bows drawn, arrows notched and aimed. Like Vaaler, they had long, thin swords strapped to their belts. Their uniforms were similar to Vaaler’s as well, except that they had the insignia of their own patrol emblazoned over their hearts. The other six remained hidden in the branches above, each taking careful aim at their targets below.
Another Danaan—this one older than the others and wearing a different uniform—stepped from the trees directly in front of them.
“Drake!” Vaaler exclaimed in surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”
Keegan guessed the man to be in his late forties. He remembered Vaaler mentioning him before; after the King’s death Drake had taken over many of the duties of raising the young prince. Unlike the others he did not have a bow, but in his left hand he held the hilt of a rapier.
“Vaaler, by order of Rianna Avareen, ruling Monarch of the Danaan people, you and your companions are hereby banished from the Danaan realms. This company is to escort you to the border of the kingdom.”
It was obvious to Keegan that Drake took no joy in the proclamation.
“What are you talking about?” Keegan couldn’t tell if Vaaler was confused, insulted, or afraid. Probably all three. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“If you do not comply I have been ordered to use any force necessary. Even lethal force.” The man hesitated then added. “Please, Vaaler. Don’t make it come to that.”
“This is an outrage!” the Danaan prince shouted, directing his wrath at the archers training their arrows on the company.
Like Keegan, the others were completely motionless, knowing the slightest movement might trigger a barrage of deadly missiles. Vaaler, however, seemed unable to grasp the danger they were all in. His head turned from side to side, his body twisting round and round as he tried to look at all of their assailants at once.
“Lower your weapons this instant!” he shouted. “How dare you threaten the heir to the throne!”
The archers made no move to comply. From the corner of his eye Keegan saw Jerrod’s head give a faint tilt upward. Like him, the monk sensed there were more Danaan than just these in the clearing. The woods around them were filled with enemies.
“Vaaler, you are no longer the heir to the throne,
” Drake told him. “By order of the Queen you are banished, forbidden from ever returning to Danaan lands.”
“I … I don’t understand,” Vaaler stammered. “What are you saying? My mother has disowned me?”
Without even realizing he was doing so, Keegan began to gather the Chaos. “The Queen knows the path you walk,” Drake told him. “She knows you threaten to bring destruction on us all. She has seen it in her visions.”
“Damn her visions! Damn your blind faith in prophecies and dreams! I have done nothing wrong!”
Keegan’s body began to tingle as he gathered his power. The beating of his own heart slammed against the walls of his chest, trying to burst free. It took all his effort to remain still as a sudden surge of Chaos flared up within him, a caged beast hurling itself against the bars so that it might unleash its fury on the world. But somehow he kept it in check.
“You have brought humans to our lands!” Drake spat out. “You’re leading them straight to Ferlhame itself! You have violated one of our people’s oldest laws! You have disobeyed the will of the council and your Queen!”
There was little chance he would be able to invoke a proper spell. Several of the archers were aimed specifically at him, poised to fire. Any movement from Keegan, a single arcane word, any hint that he was channeling magic through Rexol’s staff, and they would let fly.
But as Rexol had told him time and time again, the single greatest tool available to those who dared to call upon the fires of Chaos was the strength of the wizard’s own Gift. Ultimately it was the ability of the individual that determined the effects of any given spell. In theory, a wizard who was strong enough in his talent could unleash magic through the sheer force of his will. And Keegan’s Gift was stronger than any other mage in the mortal world.
“Please, Drake, you have to trust me,” Vaaler begged. “I am bringing salvation to our people.”
“You are like a son to me,” the older Danaan replied, his voice near to breaking. “Had you become King, I would gladly have bowed down before you. But you do not have the Sight, you cannot see what lies ahead. The Queen has seen the destruction you will bring upon us, and she has sent me to stop it.”
“My mother is sick,” Vaaler implored. “Her power has become too much for her to bear. It’s twisted her mind. You’ve seen it just as well as I have—something is destroying her. Let me go to her, and I can save her!”
Drake bowed his head, and for a moment it seemed as if the young man’s words had reached him. But when he looked up his eyes were hard and cold as steel.
“I must obey the will of my Queen,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. He raised his arm, and Keegan heard the creak of the bows as the strings were drawn taut. If they were to have any chance to survive, they’d have to find some way to stop the archers from mowing them down.
“Surrender your weapons to me now, Vaaler, or this will end with blood.”
Keegan unleashed the Chaos he’d been gathering. Set free on the mortal world, it exploded outward, the air rippling as a wave of force rolled out across the clearing in all directions, moving faster than thought itself. The ground buckled; the boughs of the trees bent and swayed as the concussive wall ripped through them. The bows and arrows of the archers cracked and splintered, shattered in a single instant by the power of the spell.
A shower of leaves and small twigs rained down from the foliage. The Danaan in the trees above came crashing down to the ground below, dislodged from their perches by the same spell that had destroyed their bows before a single shot could be fired.
Everyone in the clearing staggered, knocked off balance by the invisible wave. But only Keegan, standing at the magic’s epicenter, fell to the ground. The effort of casting and controlling the spell with only the force of his will had taken all his strength in a single burst, as if it had been a candle snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind. He collapsed and lay there panting, his body exhausted and utterly drained, Rexol’s staff lying on the ground beside him.
For a brief second nobody reacted; the archers simply stared in confusion at their suddenly useless weapons. And then Drake raised his sword. “For the Queen!” he shouted, and the battle began.
Jerrod was the first to react. With three running steps he crossed the distance between himself and the nearest archer, who still stood staring at his cracked bow. Without breaking stride the monk dropped into a somersault, wrapping his ankles around the other man’s neck as he tumbled past. Then he twisted his body at the waist, jerking his torso around hard to generate enough leverage through his hips and thighs to snap the neck of the helpless opponent. And then he was on his feet again, already moving to his next victim.
Bereft of their bows, the Danaan drew their swords and fell upon the group en masse. From where he lay on the ground Keegan saw one of the patrol struggling with his rapier, trying to free it from the tangle of his belt and the string from his broken bow. Before he could, Scythe fell upon him. The keen gleam of the six-inch razor in each hand glittered as she slashed relentlessly at her screaming opponent. The Danaan threw his hands up to protect his face, already gashed wide open by the flickering blades. Scythe responded with a series of fluid, rhythmical swipes—forward, back, and forward again, her wrist nimbly turning so that each pass left a mark on the hands of her enemy.
The savage grace of her surgical strikes held Keegan enthralled. The Danaan’s fingers and palms were sliced open to the bone, each cut sending a fresh stream of blood splashing across his clothes. The entire sequence had taken less than a second and Scythe wheeled away, her tiny body little more than a blur as she twirled over to the next closest enemy. The man she had carved up fell forward and landed only a few feet away from Keegan, already dead from the deep slit across his throat.
The mage tried to stand but collapsed helplessly back to the ground, unable to support his own weight. A deep grunt caused him to roll over onto his side and look to his right.
Norr had scooped up a large, heavy branch and was using it as a makeshift club to keep one of the soldiers at bay. The Danaan ducked under the wide swath of his sweeping cudgel and tried to move in near enough to bring his rapier to bear. But the barbarian’s reach was too great and before the Danaan could get close he was forced to retreat, narrowly dodging another swing of the stout tree limb that would have removed his head from his narrow shoulders.
A second member of the patrol joined the fray and they attacked in tandem, trying to coordinate their efforts so one of them could get inside the radius of the club’s wide arc. The first soldier saw an opportunity and darted in, only to be met full in the chest by Norr’s massive foot. Neither Keegan nor the unfortunate Danaan had expected such an agile maneuver from the hulking savage, and the force of the kick sent him reeling.
As he stumbled and fell onto his back, Norr leapt forward. The second solider tried to step between the barbarian’s charge and his fallen comrade but Norr’s massive bulk bowled him over, knocking him to the earth as well. Then the tree limb came crashing swiftly down, caving in the crown of the first soldier’s skull, reducing his head to a pulpy, bloody mess. Keegan turned away, but the sickening wet thud told him the second soldier had suffered a similar fate.
The sharp clash of swords drew Keegan’s attention next, and he rolled over to see Vaaler and Drake hammering at each other with their blades. The rapiers flickered and danced in quick cuts and parries, the steel moving too quickly for the eye to follow. Drake seemed to be pressing forward; Vaaler was on the defensive. A lunging thrust by the older man got through his enemy’s defenses, but Vaaler spun out of the way and the blade caught only air. The unexpected miss caused Drake to overbalance ever so slightly, and Vaaler seized the moment, delivering a sharp counter-thrust to a suddenly exposed flank.
The blade bit deep into Drake’s side, drawing a gasp of agonized pain. Vaaler’s next strike was even more lethal as he drove the point of his sword through Drake’s rib cage and into his heart, killing him instantly.
And j
ust like that the melee was over. None of the Danaan patrol had survived. From where he lay untouched in the center of the battlefield, Keegan surveyed the carnage. Three of the corpses had obviously been slain by Scythe, their skin all but flayed from the skulls by her razors. There were at least four with broken necks, the telltale mark of Jerrod’s unarmed combat. Another four seemed to have had their skulls caved in by Norr’s club.
Yet in all the slaughter, none of his companions had been harmed. Jerrod stood protectively over him, unmarked despite tackling four trained and armed soldiers without any weapons or armor of his own. Norr and Scythe stood together on the far side of the clearing covered in blood and gore, none of it theirs.
On the other side of the clearing Vaaler stood trembling over the body of the vanquished Drake. Keegan felt he should say something to his friend, but he wasn’t sure what. Before he could speak, Vaaler collapsed to his knees.
And then the disowned heir to the throne vomited on the blood-soaked ground.
Chapter 50
In the aftermath of the skirmish, Scythe was flush with the adrenaline-fueled thrill of victory. The battle was gruesome, but she had seen far worse while sailing the Western Isles or working the back alleys of Callastan. The violence and gore hadn’t disturbed her in the least … until she saw Vaaler’s reaction.
The young man was doubled over retching uncontrollably. Jerrod stood over Keegan’s prone form, as if awaiting a second wave of attackers. The young mage didn’t appear hurt, but it was obvious the monk wasn’t about to leave his side.
She glanced up at Norr and he merely shrugged, uncertain what to do. If anyone was going to help Vaaler, it was obviously going to have to be her.
Silently cursing the men for their incompetence she crossed the clearing and crouched at Vaaler’s side, rubbing his back until the seizing of his stomach passed. She helped him to his feet and gently walked him over to a clean patch of ground.