Chaos Unleashed Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE SCORCHED EARTH

  “Karpyshyn’s doom-laden spin on myth and magic invigorates ancient archetypes….As if Michael Moorcock’s decadence were filtered through J.R.R. Tolkien’s heroism.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Drew Karpyshyn plunges readers through a sweeping range of emotions. There are moments of despair and tragedy, acts of love and loyalty, amazing feats of strength and cunning. All of these aspects build into a crescendo that leaves this novel soaring on high notes.”

  —Roqoo Depot

  PRAISE FOR CHILDREN OF FIRE

  “Drew Karpyshyn weaves a rich, contrasting tapestry of epic story and doom. Gripping and compelling from the first page to last, Children of Fire is a dark-chocolate fantasy; delightfully biting and delectable all at once. Four ill-fated children born under a sign of chaos and flame carried me on a journey into an intriguing world of shadowy wonder. It’s a spellbinding epic told with masterful craft.”

  —Tracy Hickman, New York Times bestselling co-author of the Dragonlance and Death Gate series

  “This intricately layered adventure breathes realism and overshadowing menace into ancient mythic archetypes, exposing the pain and wonder inherent in magic and the mingled hope and cynicism of modern fantasy.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Chaos Unleashed is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Drew Karpyshyn

  Map copyright © 2015 by Simon M. Sullivan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Karpyshyn, Drew.

  Chaos unleashed / Drew Karpyshyn.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-345-54937-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8041-7953-9 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS3611.A7846C44 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2015025980

  eBook ISBN 9780804179539

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for eBook

  Title-page background illustration by Thomas Boulvin

  Cover art: Stephen Youll and Scott Biel

  Cover design: Scott Biel

  v4.1

  ep

  Detail left

  Detail right

  On the sandy shores of an island at the farthest edge of the sea that bounds the mortal world, four divine, glowing figures stand in a tight circle around an obelisk of black obsidian—the Keystone. It towers above them, fifty feet tall and ten feet across on each of its four sides. Carved into the smooth, dark rock are powerful runes, and shapes and shadows shift below the surface: the living, churning power of raw Chaos.

  Hiding in his nether realm far across the Burning Sea, Daemron the Slayer watches the four glowing Immortals intently, images reflected in the still waters of a stone fountain stained with blood.

  He is beaten but not bowed. The armies of the Old Gods defeated him on the field of battle, but their victory is hollow. He still lives, as do legions of his followers. Bound to the mortal world they created, the Old Gods cannot follow him here. And so he is content to wait, safe beyond their reach while he plans his counterattack; his armies resting and gathering strength while he uses his own powerful magic to spy on his enemies.

  Peering across the infinite chasm of space and time, the four figures appear as little more than blurred silhouettes of golden light. But even at this distance, he can sense that the power of the Old Gods has been diminished. They are wounded, dying. He takes pride in knowing the cost of driving him into retreat is more than even an Immortal can afford to pay. His own wounds are far less grievous. Had he risked more, had he stayed on the front lines longer, perhaps the tide of battle could have been swayed back in his favor. But at what cost? His retreat ensured that he will endure long after the other Immortals are gone. Their end is inevitable, as is his triumphant return.

  Still, the ritual he is witnessing gives him pause. Curious, he watches intently as the glowing figures extend their arms and join hands in a circle around the Keystone, their voices rising in a single chorus. In response to their deep, rhythmic chant, the Keystone begins to tremble. A few seconds later it is enveloped by a soft white glow, emanating from somewhere deep within the black obelisk itself.

  The pitch of the chant changes, going higher, redirecting and reshaping the gathering Chaos. The glow from the Keystone begins to pulse and thrum, beating like a living heart as it grows brighter and brighter.

  The Gods raise their arms, still clasped hand to hand, and a bolt of pure white lightning shoots up into the sky. It streaks higher and higher, growing wider and brighter, stinging Daemron’s eyes with its intensity. And then, just as he is about to look away, the white beam fractures, splitting into smaller rays that echo all the colors of the spectrum.

  The ritualistic chant of the Old Gods rises in pitch again, a sound so shrill it sends shivers down Daemron’s spine. The multicolored rays twist and dance as if alive, then shoot off in all directions, crisscrossing each other over and over as they paint the heavens. Within seconds the entire sky is blotted out by layer after layer of the luminous threads, weaving together and intertwining like a shimmering blanket.

  The Gods are no longer chanting. As the spell intensifies, their throats unleash only a keening wail: Immortal screams that seem to leach the color out of the mystical tapestry above them, turning the millions of vibrant threads into a solid mantle of black. And then, before Daemron realizes what is happening, the spell ends, casting his vision of the Gods and the mortal world into utter darkness as the Legacy is born.

  Daemron the Slayer wakes with a start, his massive chest heaving with quick, panicked breaths as his mind retreats from the black void. Disoriented, he casts his horned head quickly from side to side, scanning every brick and stone of the bare, circular room that is his innermost sanctum. A single ray of dim light shines down through the circular opening in the dome high above, leaving most of the room in shadow. But his glowing green eyes have no trouble piercing the gloom.

  Reassured that he is alone, calm slowly returns. He extends the massive, leathery wings that had enfolded him as he crouched in the center of the empty floor and rises to his feet, stretching the stiffness from the muscles of his bare torso and slowly swishing his long, serpentine tail.

  He rarely sleeps, but even a God must rest sometimes, particularly as his power has slowly faded during his exile. For centuries, his infrequent slumbers have been nothing but a time of empty darkness. When the Old Gods sacrificed themselves to create the Legacy, they did more than just cut him off from the mortal realm: They blinded him to the visions of Chaos. Until now.

  He knows this was no mere memory, conjured up by a mind desperate to return to the land he should rightfully rule. He never actually witnessed the creation of the Legacy, but he knows it happened just as he has seen. The images running through his head were too detailed, too vivid, and too intense to be figments of his imagination. He was once a great prophet, and though it has been many centuries, he can still recognize the hallmarks of a true vision.

  My dreams have returned. The Legacy is even weaker than I imagined!

  With a series of slow, powerful flaps of his great wings, he ascends toward the small opening in the domed ceiling thirty feet above him—the only w
ay in or out of the circular room in his castle’s tallest tower.

  Breaching the arch of the dome, he continues to climb into the dull gray sky that marks every morning in his blasted realm. Far below his ever-growing army encircles the drab buildings of his capital, stretching out for miles in every direction: thousands upon thousands of monsters and mutants, twisted and deformed by generations of living in this Chaos-poisoned land.

  His grotesque legions are eager for battle; even from on high he can sense their restless bloodlust. An army with no enemy to fight is dangerous; he knows there are many in the ranks who would throw themselves behind the rebels that seek to usurp him if given the chance. The longer they sit idle, the greater the risk of betrayal.

  Fortunately, his dream has confirmed what he already suspected. Chaos is bleeding through the Legacy. It is time to begin deploying his troops, sending them in search of places where the Legacy is thinnest and most vulnerable. Massing there, they will strike the instant the barrier tears asunder, pouring through in an invasion the mortal world has no chance of stopping.

  Tilting his head back, Daemron unleashes a piercing cry of exultation that echoes across the plains, causing the demonic soldiers below to cower and prostrate themselves on the ground.

  His long exile is almost over. The time of his return draws near. And once again, the mortal world will be his.

  KEEGAN’S STOMACH WAS rumbling, but he did his best to ignore it. Instead, he focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, relentlessly marching west across the sparse scrubland that stretched ahead of him as far as his eyes could see. With Norr’s death their numbers had dwindled to three: Jerrod, Scythe, and him—a trio of sorry figures trudging slowly across the tundra of the Frozen East.

  He leaned heavily on Rexol’s gorgon-headed staff, the powerful artifact reduced to a simple walking stick to help him on his way. Shifting the pack over his shoulder, he was reminded of how much lighter it had become. They had been rationing food ever since they left the icy peaks of the Guardian’s territory over a week ago, hoping their supplies would last long enough to get them to the Southlands.

  And then what? the young mage wondered.

  From the Guardian, they had learned that Cassandra—the young woman who had unwillingly helped them escape from the Monastery—now carried Daemron’s Crown. She had taken the Talisman and fled south once more, heading for the port city of Callastan, pursued by enemies even more dangerous than Raven, the bird-headed woman who had attacked them to try to get Daemron’s Sword.

  Even if we find her before they do, why would she want to help us?

  In the wake of Raven’s attack, Jerrod had once again revised his interpretation of the prophecy he claimed to serve. Seeing Scythe use the Sword had convinced him that there were actually three saviors, each bound to one of Daemron’s three Talismans. When the Slayer returned, the monk had explained to them, Keegan, Scythe, and Cassandra would have to work together to defeat him, drawing on the respective powers of the Ring, the Sword, and the Crown.

  Keegan wasn’t certain he bought into the new theory, and he was almost certain Cassandra wouldn’t, either. The Guardian had initially seen them as a threat; given what had happened at the Monastery, she was likely to do the same. Would Jerrod even have a chance to try to convince her he was right before she unleashed the power of the Crown against them?

  He had no idea what the Crown did, exactly. But it had been powerful enough to destroy Rexol, Keegan’s old master, when he tried to use it.

  Will we be strong enough to defeat her? Or the enemies hunting her?

  It wasn’t just Jerrod’s reinterpretation of the prophecy that worried Keegan. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the monk was obviously still struggling with the strange double vision he’d been cursed with by Raven. Ironically, the Sword had protected him from the Minion’s deadly spells when he’d fought her, but had done nothing to keep her from healing him of the mystical blindness that afflicted all the members of the Order. The gray veil that had once covered his pupils and irises had melted away, revealing a pair of very ordinary-looking brown eyes. Without his trademark feature, Jerrod no longer looked like one of the Order. Instead, he resembled a fit but otherwise unremarkable middle-aged man.

  When they finally reached the Southlands, Keegan thought, the only thing people would find odd about them were their clothes. All three of them were still wearing the simple pants and shirts they’d taken from the Danaan patrol when they’d first met Vaaler, with an extra layer of furs thrown overtop in the style of the Eastern clans to help ward off the cold.

  Jerrod hadn’t spoken of what he was going through, but Keegan could imagine how difficult it must be. With his vision restored, his supernatural awareness was now under constant bombardment by a collage of light, shapes, and colors. Jerrod no longer moved with the sharp precision Keegan had grown used to; he seemed hesitant and cautious as his mind struggled to comprehend the overabundance of stimuli. He had survived his battle with Raven, but he had suffered a loss from which he might never fully recover.

  And Scythe isn’t herself anymore, either.

  The young Islander followed close behind the monk, the weapon her lover had sacrificed himself for strapped across her back. Like the others, she carried a small pack slung over one shoulder.

  At a glance, she appeared as she always did: a small, lithe young woman with olive skin, almond eyes, and straight, shoulder-length black hair. The blade seemed almost too large for her, but the weight didn’t seem to encumber her. She still moved with a predator’s grace, her muscles always taut and ready. Unlike Jerrod, Scythe’s wounds were mental, not physical.

  Raven’s attack had snapped her out of her catatonic state of grief, but since her mind had returned, she hadn’t mentioned Norr’s death at all. She no longer seemed to blame Jerrod for her loss; she showed no signs of being interested in revenge or payback. In fact, she wasn’t interested in much of anything. She was speaking again, but only when absolutely necessary. She didn’t even question or challenge Jerrod’s decisions anymore; she seemed to be willing to just follow along with whatever the monk suggested.

  That’s not like her. She used to oppose him just on principle.

  Keegan had tried several times to draw her out of her shell, but she hadn’t engaged him. Anytime he tried to start a conversation, she’d listen but wouldn’t respond with more than one- or two-word answers.

  In the past when she wanted to be left alone, she’d shut me down with quick, cutting words. It’s like she just doesn’t care anymore.

  As much as he’d learned to fear her temper, it was far better than her newfound apathy. The only thing he hadn’t tried yet was talking to her about what happened to Norr. If anything could stir up some emotion in her, that would be it.

  But what could I even say to her?

  He knew from experience that empty platitudes could offer no comfort. When his father had been killed, the last thing he wanted to hear was tired clichés about holding on to his memories.

  That’s just an excuse. The reality is, you’re a pathetic coward. You’re just afraid she’ll see the truth!

  Norr had been his friend, but a dark, twisted corner of Keegan’s psyche was always jealous of the big man. Part of me wanted Norr out of the way. Part of me wanted him gone so I’d have a chance with Scythe.

  He hadn’t wished for Norr to die, of course. At most Keegan had hoped he might go back to his own people. And even that hope had been tempered by the understanding that it was just a foolish, selfish fantasy. The big man’s heroic sacrifice had hammered home just how petty and shameful Keegan’s feelings for Scythe really were…but that didn’t make them go away.

  Out of respect for Norr, Keegan had vowed to himself to never act on his feelings. But Scythe already knew he had a crush on her. What if she saw any effort to console her as a clumsy attempt at winning her heart now that his rival was gone? What if she saw him as a predator trying to take advantage of her vulnerable emotional state
?

  Right now she’s cold and distant, but apathy is better than hate and contempt.

  Ahead, Jerrod held up his hand and brought them to a halt.

  “We stop here for lunch, then press on. We’re getting close to the Southlands. If we’re lucky, we should come across some of the outlying farms in the next few days.”

  To Keegan’s dismay, Scythe didn’t respond to his words. She didn’t object, she didn’t agree. She didn’t even nod. She simply sat down, opened her pack, and took out a thin sliver of jerky—barely more than a few bites’ worth.

  With an inaudible sigh, Keegan took a seat on the cold ground beside her, using Rexol’s staff to help lower himself. As he dug out his own rations, she didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way.

  Jerrod slung his pack off his shoulder and let it fall to the ground, then crouched and rummaged through it, digging his way past the blankets they used to ward off the cold whenever they made camp for the night. A few seconds later he produced his own piece of jerky, only to offer it to Keegan.

  The young wizard shook his head and held up the stump of his left arm, waving the food away with a hand that was no longer there.

  “I’ve got plenty,” he lied.

  “My body can sustain itself on the most meager of rations,” Jerrod reminded him. “But you need to eat to keep your strength up.”

  “Give it to Scythe.”

  The monk turned slightly in her direction. She answered with a barely perceptible shake of her head.

  “This is all I need,” she said, holding up what was left of her scant meal.

  “The Sword gives her strength,” Jerrod surmised, turning his attention back to Keegan. “But the Ring is different. It seems to be draining you. You’re wasting away.”

  “I’m sick of jerky,” Keegan protested though he knew there was truth in what Jerrod said.

  The Ring still dangled from a chain around his neck, tucked away beneath the cloth of his shirt. But though out of sight, it was never out of mind. He could always sense its power, calling to him, urging him to put the Talisman on his finger and unleash Chaos on the mortal world. Ignoring that call wasn’t easy; it put a slow but constant strain on his mind…and possibly his body, too.