Children of Fire (9 page)

Roland knew these men were a strong deterrent to such an occurrence. Nearly a score of armed guards was usually enough to make would-be attackers rethink their intentions.

This job, however, was different. Following Conrad's instructions, Roland had recruited the hired blades on the condition that they be discreet. A mounted patrol would only draw attention to their carriage, and would do little to scare off their real enemies. Secrecy and stealth were their allies if they wanted to smuggle Cassandra out of the Southlands before the Order found her.

The other soldiers had to suspect something strange was going on. Roland had told them they were taking the girl from the Southlands to the islands of the West, where pirates and rogues ruled. There would be a ship waiting at the coast, a merchant Conrad knew. The mercenaries had to deliver the girl to him and then their job was done. The ship would sail away, and the girl and Roland would go with it.

No doubt the soldiers were curious about a wealthy father who would send his only daughter away to live in the Western Isles. There, if the girl was lucky and talented, she might become one of the infamous Women of the Waves, a band of fierce female brigands who sailed the Endless Sea. But most girls who crossed the waters ended up as thieves, prostitutes, or pleasure slaves to wealthy pirate lords … though Roland would give his life before he let such a fate befall Cassandra.

But in the end the fee Conrad had paid them, and the bonus they were told they'd receive should his daughter make it to the ship unharmed, was enough to make them set aside all their doubts. They'd even agreed to work with Dalia without complaint, despite the fact that her up-and-coming mercenary band of archers had underbid them on several recent jobs.

Yet the company had almost backed out when they learned Bella would accompany them. Roland could just make out the white witch's robed form huddled on the edge of the campfires, preparing some arcane recipe that would hopefully aid them in the attack.

Traveling with the silver-haired woman hadn't been pleasant. Each night she brewed up foul concoctions that polluted the entire camp with their stench. When she spoke her words were cryptic and mysterious, and her gaze made it feel as if she were looking deep inside you, judging you, and finding you wanting. It was easy for Roland to understand why the mercenaries balked at having her along, but Conrad had insisted the sorceress accompany them. In the end the mercenaries' love of gold had overwhelmed their distaste.

Cassandra had cried when they set out from the manor. She cried the first night when they stopped to make camp. And she cried every night since until she fell asleep. It had been a full week now, and Roland could still hear her high-pitched, little-girl sobs in the darkness coming from her private tent whenever they stopped.

He had done his best to try to comfort her, but what could you say to a four-year-old who had been cast out by her own father? He knew it was more than this, as well: The strange nightmares that had driven them into exile hadn't been left behind. Sometimes Cassandra would wake screaming, but she wouldn't talk about her dreams to anyone. She'd just cry herself back to sleep.

Bella had taken an intense interest in the girl when she learned about the nightmares; she'd asked Roland for permission to speak to her in private. But Roland kept a pair of guards with Cassandra at all times, and they had strict orders to keep the witch away from her. This seemed to suit the girl just fine.

Apart from Cassandra's nightmares the trip had been uneventful until tonight, when the horn had awakened them all with its shrill note of alarm. Roland's fist tightened on the pommel of his drawn sword in anticipation. The sentries were dead, he was sure of that now. They would have signaled if they still lived. And whoever had killed them couldn't be far away.

At least they didn't have to worry about being flanked. The back of the camp was bordered by the rushing waters of the Marn River: No man could cross the rapids here, and the nearest ford was over a day's march away. The clearing they were in was large enough that they didn't need to fear an ambush from the trees, so they just had to wait for the enemy to reveal themselves. When they did, Roland's worst fears were realized.

Half a dozen figures in loose robes stepped into the light of the fire, slipping silently from the shadows as if materializing from the darkness of the night itself. They stood in two rows, a woman and two men in front, another three men standing close behind. Each was armed with only a simple wooden staff. Their hoods had been thrown back to reveal shaved heads and gray, empty eyes. It was obvious to all how the sentries had been found; their camouflaged hiding spots would have been useless against the Sight of the Inquisitors.

“The Order has no quarrel with you,” the woman in the front declared in a strong, even voice, seemingly oblivious to the arrows Dalia and her archers aimed at her little group. “We have only come for the girl.”

She was a tall woman, taller than any of the men accompanying her. Her scalp wasn't just shaved; it was scarred and disfigured. Roland could make out dark stains on her robes and a splatter of blood across her cheek. The blood was obviously not her own.

“We have orders to take this girl to the Western Isles,” Roland replied quickly, hoping to bolster the courage of those hired to protect Sir Wyndham's daughter. “And we intend to do just that.”

“She belongs to the Order,” the woman insisted. “She has the Sight. It is heresy to refuse our request, punishable by death.”

Despite himself, Roland hesitated before replying. All his life he had lived in the Southlands. He had seen the political power of the Order. Even the most powerful lords bowed down to their will. Who was he to defy them? What weight did his vow to protect Cassandra with his life have against the will of the Gods?

In the silence of his self-doubt, Dalia answered for him.

“How will you report us to the Pontiff with your throat torn open by my arrow?”

In unison all six archers fired at the three figures in the front rank. At this close range there was barely time to hear the twang of their bows or the hiss of the arrows through the air before the missiles reached their targets.

The Inquisitors reacted with superhuman speed, seeming to move even before the arrows were fired, twirling their staves to deflect them harmlessly away … all except the woman in front. Instead, she caught Dalia's arrow with her free hand, casually reaching up to pluck it from the air mere inches from her throat. Behind them, the other monks fanned out and moved forward until they stood beside their comrades.

Roland raised a clenched fist and the first wave of soldiers rushed forward to attack, eight trained and armored men with swords against six members of the Order wearing robes and carrying only wooden staves. The slaughter was over in seconds.

Three of the Rearing Lions went down before they could even swing their blades, dropped by the lightning-swift strikes to the sides of their heads, the hard wood of the Inquisitor's staves caving in their soft temples. Another had his leg broken, the bone snapped by a sharp kick from one of the monks striking just below his knee. A fifth had his ribs shattered by a flurry of punches to his midsection, the force of the blows penetrating his mail shirt.

The remaining three soldiers managed nothing more than a few wild blows that were either parried or easily sidestepped by the spinning, whirling robed figures. A sharp fist to the throat, a knee to the groin, an elbow to the face and the soldiers still standing were standing no longer.

Roland had always dismissed the rumors he had heard about the martial prowess of the Order, believing them to be nothing but another political tool to ensure the obedience of the masses. He had scoffed at claims the Inquisitors could see into the minds of their enemies to anticipate and counter attacks even before they came. But there was no way to deny the ruthless efficiency of the massacre he had just witnessed. For the first time in his career as a soldier, Roland felt the urge to flee from a battle. Only his loyalty to Cassandra—and the knowledge that there was no real hope of escape—enabled him to hold his ground.

A second volley of arrows launched by Dalia and her now desperate archers into the melee was as ineffective as the first. The Inquisitors simply ducked and twisted out of the way, or calmly knocked the deadly projectiles aside.

“Taste my Chaos, you sightless bastards!” Bella screamed, rushing up from her spot at the back and hurling what appeared to be a small silver egg at the nearest of the enemy.

The sorceress was spewing forth a mountain of foul-sounding but senseless words, an arcane language to shape her spell. The egg struck the ground just in front of its targets and erupted in a ball of blazing white fire, engulfing all six of the robed assassins. Roland and what remained of his troop staggered back, knocked off balance by the concussive force of the explosion and recoiling from the heat.

For the first time since setting out, Roland was glad Conrad had insisted they bring Bella with them.

Inside the conflagration one of the male Inquisitors screamed, his body barely visible through the smoke and flames as it collapsed writhing to the ground. One of the figures beside him also fell, but a second later the woman and her three remaining companions stepped calmly from the wall of fire, completely unharmed. Their clothes weren't even singed.

“Uriah and Saergul were weak,” the tall woman explained coolly, sparing a brief glance at the now still corpses in the rapidly sputtering flames behind her. “But the divine will we serve is stronger than your profane magic.”

Her hand fluttered at her side, a quick flick of the wrist so subtle it may have been imagined. And suddenly a long, sharp throwing dart was lodged in Bella's neck.

The witch clutched at the metal impaled in her windpipe, choking as her hands flailed helplessly at the shaft protruding from her flesh. A thin rivulet of blood crawled down from the wound. The witch managed to wrap her fingers around the invading object and yank it free, and the blood gushed forth from her throat like a crimson geyser, staining her white robe. A look of dumbfounded shock passed across her face and she collapsed to the ground.

Roland tore his eyes away from the grisly scene to discover that Dalia and her archers were also dead, slain in the few brief seconds he had been entranced by the witch's futile struggle to survive. The two guards from Cassandra's tent had joined them now, drawn by the explosion. That made the odds seven against four, thanks to the hag's spell. But Roland had seen enough of their foe to know that none of them would survive this fight.

Grim determination set their jaws as they stood to meet their end and the Inquisitors slowly advanced.

Cassandra heard an explosion outside and the crackle of fire, followed by the sound of screams. The two men sitting with her in the tent grabbed their swords and ran out to see what was happening. They could have just asked her. She had seen it all in her nightmares. She knew the men wouldn't be coming back.

A second later the tent flap opened and another man walked in, soaking wet from head to toe. She didn't recognize him. He wasn't one of the soldiers and he wasn't one of the strangers from her nightmares. They were all bald; this man had short dark hair. Then she noticed he had no eyes.

“You're like the others,” she whispered, a little afraid and a little excited.

“No, Cassandra,” he said softly, crouching down to scoop her up in his arms, “I'm not like them at all.”

He knew her name. Nobody called her by her name anymore. They all called her “the girl” now.

“My name is Jerrod. I'm going to take you somewhere the Order will never find you.”

His wet clothes were cold against her skin as he lifted her in his arms, but she found his embrace safe and comforting.

“Can you piggyback, Cassandra?”

The little girl nodded. Her daddy used to piggyback her all the time.

The man swung her around onto his back. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck, and he reached back to hook her legs in the crooks of his elbows.

“Good girl,” he said as they slipped from the tent, leaving the sounds of the still-raging battle behind them as the man jogged toward the river.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered into her rescuer's ear.

“To a man who will keep you safe.”

“Does he have no eyes, like you?”

“No, he's not like me at all. He's a wizard. His name is Rexol.”

Cassandra smiled. This seemed like the stories her nanny used to tell her, about faeries and trolls and princesses whisked away in the depths of the night.

“Hold on tight,” the man warned as he reached the edge of the raging river. “We're going for a swim.”

“Hold out your arm, Cassandra,” Rexol ordered.

The girl hesitated, glancing quickly from the small ink pot to the glowing metal tip of the quill in his hand. She turned her emerald-green eyes up to meet the wizard's own.

“What are you going to do?”

The mage rubbed his free hand along the side of his dark-skinned cheek, showing her the tattoos inscribed on his own face.

“I'm going to paint a design on your arm. Like these.”

If she were older he would have explained to Cassandra what the symbols were for, and how they helped to channel Chaos. But Cassandra was only eight. Though she had been under his care for nearly four years, she was still his ward, not his apprentice—she was too young to comprehend the intricacies of magic. Chaos was strong in her, but it was latent and unharnessed. Her power only manifested itself subconsciously, through her strange and sometimes prophetic dreams. She wasn't ready to begin her training in the arcane arts.

He had planned to teach her true magic once she was more mature. She would learn the words to call the Chaos out, and the rituals to shape and control it once its power was unleashed into the mortal world. Given time, he could transform the girl into one of the greatest sorceresses since the Cataclysm.

But now it seemed he would never be given that time. The Pontiff had issued an official summons for both him and his young charge to present themselves at the Monastery. Rexol could think of only one reason for such a summons: The Pontiff knew who Cassandra was, and how she had been snatched away from the grasp of the Inquisitors four years ago.

He had tried to keep her identity secret, shrouding her from head to toe in the manner of the Western nomads whenever he went into town to purchase supplies. Few of the townsfolk dared to ask him about his mysterious shrouded companion. Those who did were told she was a relative from one of the tribes in Rexol's ancestral homeland.

But careful though he was, Cassandra was only a little girl. She was incapable of understanding the urgency of maintaining the ruse. There were times she pulled the shawl from her face to catch a cool breeze, or lifted her veil to get a better glimpse of some item of interest. Anyone who caught sight of her complexion or shocking green eyes would know she was not Rexol's kin.

He should have seen this coming. It was inevitable that rumors would spread of the pale-skinned girl with the emerald gaze. These rumors would eventually make their way to those who served the Order; it wouldn't be hard for them to piece together the truth.

In the end, though, he'd accepted the risk out of desperation: Unlike all the apprentices who had come before, she had real potential. Potential that might never be fully realized. The Pontiff had summoned them to the Order's stronghold, and Rexol knew there was a chance neither one of them would ever leave the Monastery again.

Yet refusing to obey the summons was in itself a crime punishable by death. If he tried to run he'd become a fugitive, hunted by the assassins of the Order. Better to capitulate, at least in appearance. If he went to the Monastery of his own free will they had no legal right to hold him.

In the royal courts of the Southlands there was a growing undercurrent of resentment against the power the Order exerted. Rexol was betting that Nazir wouldn't risk evoking memories of the Purge by holding a wizard of his reputation without cause. Not if it meant alienating his allies among the noble Houses. It was a dangerous political gamble, but one the mage was willing to take.

Even if the Pontiff did arrest him for heresy, he still had his secret allies within the Order. He believed Jerrod and his followers would find a way for him to escape; they needed him. And he had one final card he could play, if necessary: Cassandra's recent dream.

He wasn't going in unprepared, of course. He was no helpless lamb to be led to slaughter. The monks of the Order had power, but so did he.

Dipping the glowing quill into the ink pot with his left hand, he reached out and grasped the young girl's wrist with his right: firm, but not cruel. She didn't resist as he held her bare arm straight out, the palm of her tiny hand facing the ceiling.

“Will it hurt?” she asked, only the faintest hint of a tremor in her voice.

“Only for a few seconds.”

He had never lied to her. Whatever else his young charge might feel toward him—and Rexol knew he was not an easy man for a child to love—at least she trusted him.

She gasped once when the searing metal first touched her skin, then bit her lip against the pain as the wizard burned an arcane symbol of binding into her flesh. The glyph sizzled and smoked before slowly melting away beneath the skin, leaving no trace it had ever existed.

Rexol pushed his way through the small crowd of supplicants camped before the Monastery's gate. His long fingers clenched even more tightly around Cassandra's tiny hand as he dragged her through the ceaselessly praying throng.

The walls of the Monastery towered over them, thirty feet above the surrounding desert sands. They were made of an otherwise unknown stone, perfectly smooth and without visible defect. The black rock gleamed like polished marble, and if one stared at it long enough it was possible to see dark shadows moving beneath the surface. Legend held that the souls of the monks who died within the Monastery walls still dwelled within the stone, giving power and strength to their brothers and sisters inside.

The only entrance was the massive gate on the eastern face: two enormous slabs fashioned from the same black stone that made up the rest of the fortress. If not for the barely visible seam where the hinges swung open and the faint line between the two slabs, this section of wall would have been indistinguishable from the rest of the structure. If permission to enter was granted the gates would open and the stone would part, soundlessly opening inward to grant entrance, then sealing behind once more to preserve the inner mysteries of the structure.

In the first century following the Cataclysm, the supplicants camped outside the gates would have numbered in the thousands. Today there were less than fifty ardent believers. The Old Gods rarely answered prayers, and many of the common folk had turned to the New Gods to make their pleas. Not that they answered any more prayers than the Old, but at least they were
New
.

Despite this, the Order still held significant influence across the Southlands. Though many Southerners had fallen from the path of true worship, the common folk still generally heeded the wishes and demands of those who served the Pontiff. Some obeyed out of fear, some respect, and others simply because of the political influence the Order wielded.

Oracles were common in most noble courts, using their visions to give guidance and counsel to the various ruling houses … along with frequent donations to their liege lords from the Monastery's substantial coffers. In return, Pilgrims were given free rein to spread the faith of the so-called True Gods from the impregnable stronghold to each of the Seven Capitals and every city, town, and village in between.

And the ancient law that permitted those with the Sight or the Gift to be recruited into the Order against the wishes of parents or guardians had never been repealed … though rarely was a child of noble birth ever taken from his or her family.

Had Cassandra's parents been true nobility, instead of members of the merchant class, she would never have ended up under Rexol's care. Some would attribute her fate to the whims of fortune and chance, but Rexol knew better. Chaos turned the wheels of destiny in ways even the prophets could not see.

What the supplicants outside the Monastery walls lacked in numbers they more than made up for in religious fervor. The faithful pushed and shoved one another without regard, bowing and prostrating themselves, their voices rising up in a discordant cacophony of chants and prayers.

The nearer Rexol and Cassandra came to the gates the more insufferable the crowd became. Eager worshippers pressed forward, desperate to bring themselves ever closer to the smooth black stone of the Monastery, never quite daring to touch the holy yet forbidding walls.

Rexol and his charge passed through the throng with relative ease, the people scrambling in their haste to clear a path before him. A Chaos mage in full wizard's regalia cut a fearsome figure.

The dark skin of Rexol's face and bare torso were painted in fierce glyphs, both symbolic and functional in the unleashing of Chaos. His long black hair was knotted in dozens of wild, uneven braids interwoven with the feathers of a young roc.

His body was adorned with all manner of magical talismans: Smooth white hoops fashioned from the bones of long-extinct beasts pierced his lips, nostrils, ears, tongue, and even the nipples of his chest. Frozen giant's tears glimmered in the rings on his fingers, and he wore a necklace strung from ogres' teeth. His left arm jangled with a dozen bracelets wrought from a young dragon's scales; they completely covered his tattooed skin from his wrist to his elbow. In his right hand he clutched a six-foot ebony staff topped by a gorgon's horned skull.

Rexol had drunk deep of the witchroot this morning in anticipation of this meeting. His body quivered with barely contained energy; it shimmered with the aura of a terrible latent power. The worshippers at the gate recoiled from his presence, withering before the harsh glare of Chaos bubbling just beneath the surface of his wild yellow eyes. The wizard had come ready for battle.

He reached the gate, the young girl who had been his pupil for the past four years still in tow. He rapped his staff hard upon the flawless stone surface, the gorgon's skull bringing up tiny sparks with each blow.

“I have been summoned by the Pontiff,” he growled at the featureless stone before him.

A somber, low-pitched bell rang out from within, and the supplicants obediently backed away. The massive gates opened inward slightly, leaving barely enough space for one man to step through, even though Rexol knew it was possible for the gates to spread wide enough for an entire caravan of wagons traveling side by side to pass within.

Aware of the slight he had been given, he stepped through angrily, yanking Cassandra after him. The gates closed silently behind them. Despite the euphoria brought on by the witchroot flowing through his body, he felt a twinge of fear as he took stock of his surroundings.

Immediately inside the Monastery gate was a large courtyard; beyond it were the buildings that served as the living quarters and bureaucratic offices of the Order. Catwalks had been built four feet below the top of the stone walls along the inner entire perimeter, forming battlements so the monks could patrol them during the unthinkable event of an enemy siege.

The courtyard contained a few monks wandering through as they performed their various religious and secular duties, seemingly oblivious to his presence. They were clad in simple garb, functional and unremarkable. Muted colors were their only distinguishing feature; beyond the walls Rexol would not even have recognized them as members of the Order. Not until he was close enough to see their gray and lifeless eyes.

From the buildings on the other side of the courtyard a figure was approaching, dressed as the others save for a rather unremarkable chain of office around his neck. Flanking him on either side, following a single step behind, were six more monks: Inquisitors; guards to protect the leader of the Order as he met with one of their sworn enemy.

Rexol had never met the Pontiff before; he was momentarily taken aback by the physical frailty of his rival. Nazir seemed an old, old man. He walked with slow, measured steps, stooped forward and leaning heavily on a simple walking stick. His face was lined and weathered; his wrinkled scalp was speckled with dark brown age spots that could not be hidden by his few wispy strands of white hair. Like all the monks his eyes were sightless orbs of solid gray. Yet despite the obvious diminishments of age he carried himself with an air of authority.

“I am here,” the mage declared once the Pontiff had crossed the distance between them. “I have answered your summons.”

No more words were needed; Rexol's appearance spoke for itself. He had come girded for battle, weighed down with so many talismans and ornaments of power that he was barely able to contain the Chaos within himself. If this was to be his last stand, he wanted his foe to realize that victory would come with a terrible cost.

The old man did not reply immediately, and Rexol knew his none-too-subtle point had been made.

Nazir studied the spectacle before him, evaluating his enemy. Though not a sorcerer, he understood the violent purpose of the fearsome glyphs etched on the bare-chested man's dark skin. He felt the awesome potential of the Chaos bound within the rings and necklaces adorning the wizard; the Sight allowed him to see the shimmering nimbus of crackling power enveloping his foe.

Typical of his kind, the mage had pushed himself to his very limits with no regard for the possible consequences. His yellow eyes gave undeniable proof that his mind was addled by the narcotic effects of witchroot, further impairing his judgment.

The Pontiff realized he would have to be aware of the potential consequences for both their sakes. A single lapse in the wizard's mental control could unleash the devastating fury of the Chaos trapped within the talismans, resulting in a storm that would consume them all.

“I see you have brought the child,” the Pontiff said, turning toward the young girl.

She recoiled slightly, half hiding behind Rexol's leg. A common enough reaction in the children brought here. In time she would get over her fear of his gray, sightless eyes.

“Cassandra is in my charge. I have taken her as my apprentice.” The wizard made no effort to veil the implied threat in his tone.

“She belongs in the Order,” the Pontiff replied, his voice even but firm. “Her parents should have brought her to us when she first manifested her power.”

“They didn't. They brought her to me. She is my responsibility, not yours.”