Chaos Unleashed Page 4

  He knows you caused the earthquake! Rexol shouted in warning.

  No, you caused it, Cassandra snapped back. I stopped you.

  “I did my best to set and splint them,” Methodis continued, unaware of the silent debate raging inside his patient’s thoughts, “but I feared you would never walk properly again…if at all.

  “But the bones are already mending, and the bruising is almost completely gone.”

  “Then my recovery is a tribute to your talents,” Cassandra suggested.

  The old doctor shook his head.

  “This has nothing to do with me,” he insisted. “I’ve heard tales of the Order’s physical prowess. Rumors of unbelievable speed and strength. Incredible stamina. Remarkable healing powers. But I never imagined anything like this.”

  This is not just because of the Order’s teachings, Rexol chimed in. It’s the Crown. You’re instinctively drawing on its power.

  “How much longer until I can walk again?” Cassandra asked, ignoring the wizard.

  “I really can’t say,” Methodis admitted. “If you continue to heal at this rate, another week or two, perhaps.”

  I don’t have that much time, Cassandra thought, recalling something Methodis had told her the first time she had regained consciousness under his care. The Order was descending on the city. Even now, she suspected, Yasmin would have Inquisitors scouring the streets looking for her.

  You could be fully healed in a few days if you embrace your full potential, Rexol reminded her. All you have to do is let me teach you.

  “I can’t stay here,” Cassandra told him. “You’ve put yourself in great danger by taking me in. If the Order discovers what you’ve done, you will be burned at the stake as a heretic.”

  “If defying the Order makes one a heretic, the Pontiff will have to burn down the entire city,” he replied with a shrug.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the Pontiff declared her Purge, Callastan refused to bow down,” he said, an unmistakable hint of pride in his voice. “Too many of us remember the last time. The senseless executions. The mindless fear that turned neighbors against each other.

  “For all its failings, Callastan at least has the courage to defy the Pontiff. When she declared the Purge, we responded by exiling all her followers.”

  “I thought the earthquake changed all that,” Cassandra said. “When I woke up the first time, you told me the city was in ruins. You said there were riots in the streets. You told me the Order was coming to claim what was left of the city.”

  “I feared the worst,” Methodis admitted. “Callastan is a mosaic of every sin and vice you could imagine. But despite this, or possibly because of it, there is a strength among its people. From the corrupt rulers to the ruthless crime lords all the way down to the cunning pickpockets who work the crowds at the market, all the citizens share one single trait: They do not bow down easily to authority.

  “That is the reason the Enforcers police our streets. Yet even armed soldiers on every corner cannot fully keep the fiery spirit of Callastan’s people in check.”

  “I thought the Enforcers used fear and violence to dominate the lower classes,” Cassandra noted, recalling her lessons from the Monastery.

  “There is some truth in that,” Methodis admitted, “but in this city they are a necessary evil. Without them, the streets would run red with blood.

  “And as unpopular as they are, the Order is even more so,” he continued. “When word spread that the Pontiff’s followers were coming, the ranks of the Enforcers tripled overnight as the nobles and the underworld set aside their differences and banded together against a common foe.”

  “An inspiring tale,” Cassandra said grimly, “but in the end it won’t matter. Even together, they are no match for the Pontiff and her Inquisitors. Not with the armies of the rest of the Southlands at her back.”

  “That may be true,” the old man conceded. “But for now, the mere threat of resistance has kept the Order at bay. They are gathering outside the city; their numbers growing day by day. Yet so far they have not even dared to approach our walls.”

  Cassandra was puzzled by Yasmin’s strategy. Callastan was a port city; laying siege to it was futile if the Order couldn’t control the docks.

  What is she waiting for?

  You overestimate the Pontiff’s power, Rexol told her. Your mind is clouded by years of indoctrination inside the Monastery walls. The Order is not what it used to be.

  “Eventually their numbers will be enough that they will attack,” Methodis said, as if he were privy to her and Rexol’s private conversation. “But fortunately that day is not here yet.”

  “I have to leave before that day comes,” Cassandra insisted.

  “Then you need all the rest you can get right now,” he said, handing her the cup.

  Knowing he was right, Cassandra drank the murky liquid down as he began rewrapping her splints. It was bitter and so thick she felt it coating her tongue and throat, but there was no denying how effective it was: By the time the doctor was finished dressing her wounds, she was fast asleep.

  “Pay attention,” Rexol admonished her, “it is the only way you will learn…”

  LIKE ALL THE Pontiff’s senses, her olfactory awareness was acutely heightened. Even camped a mile beyond the town walls, Yasmin could still smell the foul stench of Callastan on the night breeze blowing in from the sea. With each breath the stink of docks and sewers wafted up into her nostrils, mingling with the putrid stench of the vile city’s moral corruption.

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of her otherwise empty tent, she couldn’t help but think about how much she longed for another smell: the acrid aroma of smoke and fire as the Southlands’ greatest abomination went up in flames. The city had long been a thorn in the Order’s side, its defiance of their official proclamations teetering on the verge of open rebellion for decades.

  Nazir should have wiped this place from the map long ago.

  Now the task fell to her. Unlike her predecessor, however, the Order she ruled over was a tattered remnant of what it once had been. The attack on the Monastery had wiped out well over half their numbers. In the months since then, too many others had been lost or scattered in the hunt for the Crown and the other Talismans.

  She no longer had the numbers simply to overrun the defenses of the city, not without help. The new Purge had brought others into the fold: soldiers and mercenaries under the command of nobles who were loyal to the cause. Many—but not nearly all—of these had joined her here on the plains just outside Callastan over the past week, their tents and campfires spreading in a long, thin line that ran parallel to the city walls. Each day more soldiers arrived from the Southlands, trickling in to slowly swell the ranks of her army. But she would gladly trade any fifty of them for a dozen more Inquisitors.

  We must work with the tools we are given, she reminded herself.

  Of the hundred-odd surviving members of the Order, fourscore had already answered her call to come to Callastan. A dozen of those had slipped secretly inside Callastan’s walls, calling on their divine power to alter the appearance of their pure white eyes so they could blend in with the scum of the city. A few wandered the streets seeking out Cassandra and the Crown, but most—as per Yasmin’s orders—were stationed by the docks in case the heretic tried to flee.

  She has to know we are out here, gathering our forces.

  The Pontiff had hoped the mere presence of her underwhelming army might be enough to flush Cassandra out of whatever hole she was hiding in. If she tried to escape the city by ship, her agents at the docks would be waiting. But the girl was cunning; so far she had the sense to simply wait them out, hiding behind the walls of the city and the might of the Enforcers.

  If Carthin’s troops were here, we wouldn’t have to play this game.

  As if on cue, she sensed Xadier approaching her tent, his second sight allowing him to cross the uneven ground smoothly in the black night. Over the past weeks the head o
f the Order’s Seers had effectively come to serve as her administrative right hand, handling communications and logistics for the ever-growing army of loyal followers as the Purge spread across the Southlands.

  There was something anxious and urgent about his gait, and Yasmin could already tell he was not coming to deliver good news.

  He lacks proper discipline; he must learn to control his emotions. Or at least how to hide his true feelings from others.

  Though capable enough at his job, Xadier was young and inexperienced. With the ranks of the Order so thin, Yasmin had been forced to promote him before he was ready.

  We must work with the tools we are given, she reminded herself for a second time.

  She rose to her feet as he reached the entrance to her tent, ushering him in with a subtle nod.

  “You bring word from Lord Carthin?” she guessed.

  “Yes, Pontiff. He sends his most sincere apologies for not answering sooner. He claims the first dispatches you sent did not reach him.”

  In the wake of the earthquake that had rocked Callastan, Xadier had sent several messenger falcons out with detailed instructions to all of Yasmin’s Inquisitors and generals across the Southlands. Within three days she had received replies from everyone save Lord Carthin.

  For centuries the Order had been using a network of trained birds and couriers on horseback to communicate quickly with their agents and followers in and around the Seven Capitals. And while there were occasions where the avian messengers ran afoul of some misfortune before reaching their destination, such incidents were extremely rare.

  Still, she had been willing to give Carthin the benefit of the doubt; he was in the field of battle, and it was possible an enemy had intercepted the message. Hearing no response after three days, she had dispatched another bird. Only this one was sent to one of the Order’s aeries close to where Carthin’s army was stationed. From there, a courier had delivered her message in person. The process was slower, of course—no rider could travel as swiftly as the tireless falcons—but it was more reliable.

  “But now that he knows my wishes, his army is on the way?” Yasmin asked.

  “Hopefully within the next few days, Pontiff,” Xadier replied.

  “Hopefully?” she said, raising an eyebrow and tilting her bald head down and to the side, almost as if she was displaying the burns and scars of her scalp in a show of anger.

  “Lord Carthin feels the rebels near Norem still pose a threat,” Xadier hastily explained. “He claims they are hiding several practitioners of the Chaos arts around the city.”

  Lord Carthin of Brindomere had been the first noble of any real rank to take up the cause when she declared her Purge. Ruler of the largest of the Seven Capitals, his troops had been instrumental in quelling the first stages of resistance in the heart of the Southlands. For his loyalty, Yasmin had given him the title of Justice of the Order—a position he had pursued with zeal and vigor. Yet, like Xadier’s, it was a title she had granted out of necessity rather than merit.

  “I thought Norem surrendered to him weeks ago,” Yasmin noted, recalling the message of the last falcon Carthin had sent her way.

  “Officially, yes,” Xadier agreed. “But Justice Carthin fears they will resume their heretical ways if he removes his troops from the city before hunting down those enemies still in hiding.”

  Yasmin was no fool. Carthin was a devout follower of the True Gods, but he was also a cold, calculating opportunist. He understood all too well that by the ancient laws, a portion of any lands and property he seized on behalf of the Order fell to him. Driven by the twin inspirations of religious duty and material greed, he had rooted out and ruthlessly crushed any and all he could find who were foolish enough to oppose the Purge. Fear of the new Justice’s wrath had convinced a number of other powerful nobles to swear their loyalty—and their armies—to Yasmin.

  Without Carthin’s efforts, the Purge would have quickly lost much of its momentum. But at the same time, Carthin was quick to seize the coffers and take on the soldiers and mercenaries of his fallen rivals, increasing his own wealth and influence even as he spread the Pontiff’s holy message.

  “He knows I have declared that all of our secular forces must rally here in Callastan? Did I not make it clear in the message that this must be our top priority now?”

  “Yes, Pontiff. And he has promised to send his troops the instant he feels they can be safely withdrawn from Norem.”

  Carthin wasn’t fool enough to openly defy the Pontiff, but he was clearly stalling.

  He could ignore the falcon I sent his way, but he couldn’t ignore an actual courier.

  “Do you think he is afraid to face the Enforcers?” Xadier asked.

  Callastan’s Enforcers were little more than brutish thugs, a police force that was nearly as bad as the criminals it kept in line. But the zeal for violence that allowed them to be so effective in maintaining some semblance of order in the chaotic streets of Callastan also made them a formidable obstacle to any enemies of the city. Carthin wouldn’t be the first commander to hesitate before sending his army against such a foe.

  “Perhaps he is afraid,” Yasmin conceded, before silently adding, I hope that is all that is keeping him away.

  The alternatives were much more unpleasant. It was possible Carthin had become so focused on material wealth that he was using every trick he could think of to ignore her orders while continuing to plunder the soft targets of the Southlands for as long as possible. He wouldn’t be the first to lose his religious devotion under a mountain of gold.

  Yet there was an even-more-troubling scenario. Carthin’s army had swallowed up so many soldiers and mercenaries that it now dwarfed any other force in the Southlands. Had the Justice of the Order become so emboldened by his victories that he believed he was powerful enough simply to ignore the Pontiff’s wishes?

  Fear of the Enforcers or a faltering in his religious devotion were failings Yasmin could forgive. A possible threat to her authority was not.

  I don’t have time to wait and see how this plays out. Every day we waste with Carthin’s games is another day Cassandra might slip through my fingers!

  “Perhaps I must go see Justice Carthin in person for him to understand the urgency of our situation,” she suggested aloud.

  She expected Xadier to oppose her, but to her surprise the Seer answered, “Of course, Pontiff. Shall I assemble some of the Inquisitors to escort you?”

  He understands the situation better than I thought.

  “We lack the numbers to effectively keep Callastan under siege as it is,” she reminded him. “If I draw even a handful of Inquisitors away, their spies might learn of it and the Enforcers might decide we are vulnerable to a counterattack.”

  “Surely you aren’t planning to face Carthin alone!” Xadier protested.

  “Send word to those Inquisitors still out in the field,” Yasmin told him. “The ones out searching for Jerrod and his followers. Tell them to meet me at the aerie near Norem.”

  “There are already rumors that some of the mercenaries who have joined our cause are using the Purge as an excuse to terrorize innocent villages and farms,” Xadier cautioned. “Especially along the borderlands of the Frozen East.

  “The presence of the Inquisitors in that region might be all that is keeping those soldiers from rampaging completely out of control. If we recall them—”

  “I do not enjoy leaving devout followers of the True Gods at the mercy of murdering swine,” Yasmin interrupted, her voice cold and hard. “But the Crown is in Callastan! Cassandra already used it once; the Legacy barely survived.

  “What if she uses it again?” she demanded. “If the Legacy falls, the Slayer will return. And his legions will unleash death and destruction a hundred times worse than the damage wrought by a few roving bands of corrupt soldiers.”

  “Of course, Pontiff,” Xadier said, bowing low and clasping his hands in front of his chest by way of apology. “You are right. As always.”


  “Send a falcon to Lord Carthin to tell him I am coming,” Yasmin commanded. “He has much to explain, but after all he has done for us it is only fair we give him time to prepare his defense.”

  —

  Orath focused his energies inward, calling on the night to wrap itself around him like a black cloak, shielding him from the awareness of the Pontiff and her kin. But even with their sight obscured, he was careful to give the army encamped on the plains outside Callastan a wide berth as he crept toward the city walls. The Chaos storm unleashed by the Crown had restored much of his fading power, but not enough to take on an entire army of Inquisitors by himself.

  In the aftermath of the storm he’d felt revitalized, his reserves of Chaos replenished enough that he had fled the battle between the Danaan and the Eastern Barbarians on a chariot of wind. But a few hours into his flight he’d felt the toll the spell was taking, so he’d abandoned it and continued his journey on foot.

  He didn’t know which side had won the battle at the Giant’s Maw; he didn’t know how many warriors on both sides fell to the ogre’s fury once it broke free of his control. None of that mattered to him now that he’d felt the Crown calling to him.

  Fighting the urge to use his magic to race to Callastan had been difficult, but he knew it was the wise choice. If the Crawling Twins had succeeded in their mission to claim the Crown, they would have brought the Talisman to him by now. At the very least they would have used their power to make contact with their leader. But too many days had passed in silence, and he knew that they had failed. The Chaos storm unleashed by the Crown—a storm so powerful Orath had felt it hundreds of miles away—had destroyed them.

  Raven failed, too, Orath recalled. Like the Crawling Twins, she had been hunting the young woman carrying the Crown. Now she, too, was gone.

  Daemron’s ritual had sent seven of them through the Legacy. He had chosen them to be his Minions in the mortal world because they were the strongest, the smartest, the most cunning and most ruthless of his followers. But for all their power, only the leader of the seven was still alive.